


Brother Mine: Who We Learn From

by Wind_Ryder



Series: Brother Mine Collection [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherhood, Bullying, Eating Disorders (Mentioned), Everyone is a Puppet, Gen, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wind_Ryder/pseuds/Wind_Ryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is nine, ten, eleven, twelve. He's growing up, and he's learning his place in the world. Various authority figures come and go, and he begins to shape himself into the man he wants to be. </p><p>Mycroft is sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. He's training under a series of mentors eager for him to take his place as the puppeteer in the dark. He's alone, isolated, kept from those he swore to protect. It's a more difficult task than he had initially anticipated. </p><p>Sherrinford is timeless and ageless, a figment of Mycroft's nightmares and slowly a permanent presence in Sherlock's life. </p><p>Mycroft had hoped to keep Sherlock well away from their older brother, but Mycroft's not there to stop it now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seven Months Later

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to Brother Mine: Who We Come From. It is important to read that story first in order to understand what happens in this one. 
> 
> I will add tags as necessary. Certain chapters will be more violent than others, and I will include warnings in chapter notes.
> 
> This story will focus primarily on Sherlock, though Mycroft or Sherrinford will play important roles in each chapter.
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful Beta reader: Chanel.
> 
> All mistakes are mine, and please let me know if you see any. 
> 
> I will update at least once a week, sometimes more depending on scheduling conflicts.

Sherlock Holmes _enjoyed_ school. Dressed his sharp slacks and a good jacket, he was mystified why Mycroft had been so against it to begin with. School was a place where everyone was there to _learn_. It was eight hours of designated Research, and Sherlock couldn’t imagine a better place. He even liked the other students. They were completely moronic and poor at their assignments, but they praised his intelligence and gave him the opportunity to work on their assignments as well.

 

He really didn’t think he deserved to get in trouble for _that_. His parents had been called to the school and had to sit down across from the Head Master as the man railed at them about how Sherlock had disgraced himself. Sherlock thought it was a bit of an overreaction, so did his mother and father. Both seemed to have a difficult time restraining themselves from laughing.

 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” The Head Master mistakenly asked Sherlock, scowling at him as he was dragged back into the conversation. He’d been ignoring it for at least the past twenty minutes, having already heard everything he needed to hear. He’d done wrong: blah, blah, blah.

 

“It’s hardly my fault if Higgins, Cooper, and Mac are so daft that they can’t understand the basic concepts that your inefficient educators attempt to instill in them. I was merely assisting them in moving along.” Sherlock said. His mother snickered indelicately, and his father just looked resigned for another half hour of shouting.

 

He was suspended and told not to return until he had managed to appropriately think on what he’d done. He probably could have managed to get by with just a warning, but the Head Master hadn’t taken kindly to being insulted every time Sherlock opened his mouth. The suspension was there to teach him a lesson, though he really didn’t understand what he was supposed to learn. “People are stupid.” Sherlock declared, shoving his hands into his pockets as his parents guided him to their car.

 

Red Beard was lying on the back seat and his head popped up as they approached. He barked happily upon seeing Sherlock, and Sherlock grinned in response. Pulling open the door he reached in and gave the dog a firm scratch along his spine before nudging him out of the way so he could slip inside.

 

“Perhaps you should try to restrict your educational pursuits to only _your_ assignments next time?” His mother offered as she turned out of the drive. She twisted about to look at him. “You’re too clever to let other people take credit for your own work.” His father gently guided the wheel away from the center line that she’d been about to cross, far too used to correcting his wife’s driving while she was distracted. She didn’t even notice. Sherlock’s lips pitched upwards as he caught his father’s eye in the rearview mirror.

 

“I was ghost writing for them. They paid me for it. Professionals do it all the time.” Sherlock shrugged. “Besides, they got perfectly reasonable grades for their efforts.”

 

“Did they? How much for each grade?” His mother asked, narrowly avoiding a passing vehicle.

 

“10 pounds for top marks, and two less for each one after that.” Sherlock replied with a shrug. “Red Beard got a good collar out of it, didn’t you?” He asked his dog who responded with an affectionate lick to the side of his face.

 

“I had wondered about that.” She said with a laugh. “Still, you’re worth far more than ten pounds a paper, dear. Make it twenty or nothing next time.” Sherlock grinned.

 

“All right.” He agreed, leaning against the door with a pleased expression.

 

They arrived home in short order, and Sherlock hurried inside to change out of his clothes and into his lab gear. He snatched Red Beard’s safety goggles off his desk and he fastened them onto his dog’s head. He curled up on a pillow not too far away, watching Sherlock warily for any signs of spills or disasters.

 

Sherlock had already managed to permanently scar his hands and arms in certain places from his carelessness. They weren’t massive or even particularly marring, but accidents did happen from time to time. The gloves his parents bought him didn’t feel good against his hands, and he was far too clumsy with them on.

 

He pulled out his notebook that was beside his lab equipment and flipped to that last few pages. He already knew what it said, but he made it a habit to double check everything prior to proceeding. His father wandered into the room and looked over his work. “Put your own goggles on.” He requested quietly, giving Sherlock’s shoulder a squeeze. He hummed in response and watched his father sit down beside his model train set.

 

They had a good system. Sherlock worked with his chemistry set, his father worked on his trains, and his mother did math on the couch. They didn’t talk to each other, much. In fact, they didn’t really say anything to one another at all. It was the best version of Family Time that they’d ever had. When it got late, Sherlock would help his mother in the kitchen, and his father would set the table. They’d eat together, and his father would do the dishes while Sherlock did any school work he was required to do and his mother wrote in her diary.

 

Sometimes his mother would play one of her records, enjoying the scratching sound that accompanied the music as it filled their home. She had quite the collection of music, and Sherlock found that her taste was rather agreeable. The orchestras were soft and soothing, and listening to the records felt like a balm to a wound he didn’t realize he’d had.

 

If his calculations were finished, his experiments were over, and his work was completed, he would sit against the record player and let the vibrations fill his body. He’d close his eyes and run his hand through Red Beard’s fur, and would allow the music to bring him a feeling of utter calm. His mother consulted him on their musical selection, and Sherlock spent two weeks studying every composer and musical genre he could get his hands onto.

 

He’d been half way through his Russian composers when he’d stopped short at Tchaikovsky. _Swan Lake_ echoed through his mind and he squeezed his eyes shut as his brain screeched to a halt. His father found him, book half sliding off his lap, pages ripping between his fingers, shaking and hardly breathing. Red Beard had started barking at some point, though Sherlock hadn’t heard it over the cacophony of the ballet dancing through his ears.

 

His father pulled the book from his hands and guided him up and away from the room. They walked together through the field outside of their house, his arm wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders. He didn’t say a word, and they walked until the sun went down and the stars came out. They circled the property for hours, Red Beard walking at their sides, guiding them safely through the grass and trees of their property.

 

Sherlock had never thought much of his parents. For the first eight years of his life, they had seemed ineffectual and useless. He hadn’t thought about them until he’d run away from home, and even then he hadn’t wanted to return to live with them. He’d wanted to see them, yes, but never wanted to be under their care once more.

 

Returning from London without Mycroft seven months ago, and returning into his parents’ life had been vastly different from what he’d expected. He found that he now cared deeply for both his mother and father, and they held different roles in his eyes. Neither one was better than the other, but he learned to go to them for different reasons.

 

His mother was the one he could run experiments with, discuss his research with, could speak on the intellectual level with. She was also the one that was the most scatter-brained and unpredictable. She was the one who surprised him with her vast levels of strange ideas and useless opinions on trivial matters. She was fun and exciting, and always there to accept and encourage him in whatever capacity he presented. She thought he was spectacular, and she treated him that way. Though she was always frightened that she would do something wrong and he would leave again.

 

His father could neither understand his interests, nor comprehend his intelligence. Instead, he looked at him fondly and he listened without grasping a word Sherlock said. Instead, he liked the small things in life, and he dedicated himself to enjoying all the tiny meaningless details the world offered. His father liked trains. He liked ducks. He liked sunsets and bow-ties. He liked perfectly neat table cloths, and obsessive organization. Most important, though, was that despite his shy and textbook submissive behavior, he had an inner strength that was greater than any other Sherlock had ever seen. Sherlock could lean against him whenever he felt like he couldn’t handle the noise in his head. His father never pushed him to speak, never offered any advice to make things better, he merely took everything Sherlock had to throw at him, and let him process it on his own.

 

On rare occasions, like the day Sherlock decided to leave his first name far behind, his father could portray remarkable wisdom. He would tell Sherlock exactly what he thought, and on those days: Sherlock trusted and believed him without question. If there was one parent that Sherlock was willing to ask advice from, it was his father. If there was a man he could be half as good as, it would be him.

 

“They’re teaching dancing at school.” He told his father that night. His mother had already gone to bed, but Sherlock hadn’t been tired. He went to the kitchen and baked a cake, and his father sat across from him as they ate it together. It had become somewhat of a ritual, whenever Sherlock had had a particularly difficult day with something he had handled badly, he’d make some form of late night meal and they’d share it together.

 

“Are they?” His father asked as his mouth curled around his fork. He liked chocolate best of all and Sherlock knew that. He’d found sweet wrappers in his father’s jumpers, and he had seen the man sneaking them while his mother wasn’t looking.

 

Whenever she caught him, she’d immediately start nagging him to watch his sugar intake, and didn’t he know that _at his age_ sweets were bad for him? Neither Holmes male was impressed, so Sherlock kept his father’s secret well.

 

“Waltz, fox-trot, you know.” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, and cut another mouthful of cake out for himself. It was too sweet. He should have put less sugar in it. He’d have to adjust the recipe for next time.

 

“I always liked a good fox-trot. Your mother and I are quite proficient at line dancing, as well.”

 

“Line dancing?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the idea, imagining his parents going hand to shoulder with every strange dancing couple in the world – parading about the dance hall like spiritual enthusiasts from locations far and wide.

 

“Oh yes, I’d be happy to teach you some time if you’d like.” Sherlock shrugged, not really caring one way or another, and his father happily took another bite of his dessert.

 

“I liked the ballet.” Sherlock murmured after a while. He didn’t look at his father as he spoke. Whenever it came down to one of their late night heart-to-hearts, Sherlock found that he was rather incapable of maintaining eye-contact throughout the whole procedure. He poked his plate rhythmically, and bit his bottom lip. “ _Swan Lake_. I liked it.” His father didn’t respond, just continued to eat, and Sherlock forced himself to continue before he lost his nerve. “But when Kent died…” He grimaced and then shook his head to center himself. “When Kent died…I don’t know if I’m meant to like it. He’s dead, and in the books I’ve read about coping with grief,” his father let out a startled noise at that, and Sherlock ducked his head further towards his chest. “I’m not supposed to enjoy things I did with him anymore.”

 

“Codswallop.” Sherlock’s head snapped up in surprise. “That’s a load of bollocks.” He’d never heard his father speak like that. _Ever_. “Thomas Kent was a good man who you cared for. He introduced you to things you liked, because he cared for you and wanted you to be happy. If you liked the ballet, then you liked the ballet. Should you avoid Red Beard because Kent gave him to you?” The dog groaned on cue, and plopped his head on the ground in dissatisfaction. “What did you like about the ballet?”

 

“ _Everything_.” Sherlock breathed. “He was teaching me violin, and when we left…before…well, when we left I asked him if he thought I could play in an orchestra one day and he said he thought I could. I was going to go home and practice it, but then…” He trailed off and his eyes started to fall once more. His father ate another spoonful of cake and took a long swallow of milk. “The dancing was beautiful. I never saw anything like it. I wanted to…I wanted to learn how.”

 

“There’s a school in town. Do you want to sign up for lessons?”

 

“The boys at school say only poofs know how to dance.” Sherlock told him mildly.

 

“Son, I don’t care if only tortoises know how to dance. Do _you_ want to dance?” Sherlock nodded slowly, and his father returned the gesture. “Then you’ll take lessons.”

 

“What about…what about Kent?”

 

“Kent would have told you to dance. He would have told you to be happy. He would have encouraged you. He would not have sat back and portrayed doubt. You’re a pirate, remember Sherlock? You take what you want, and you don’t look back. Ignore the lot of them. They don’t understand. You learning to dance is absolutely meaningless to them. It’s their own fault if they can’t get over it.” Cake sufficiently depleted, the man stood up and scooped up their dishes.

 

Sherlock watched him set the house back to rights, adjusting the tablecloth so it was perfectly centered, ensuring each chair was equal distance apart and all crumbs were handled appropriately. He offered to let Red Beard out one last time, and Sherlock stood with him on the porch as his dog went about his business.

 

“You’re going to be just fine, you know that, son?” His father asked, and Sherlock looked over to him.

 

“Thanks, dad.” He replied, and he felt his spirits rise.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Mycroft Holmes spent his sixteenth birthday with a bottle of scotch and an empty home. Aside from the guards who would never leave, Mycroft had given the periphery staff leave for the night. He’d wanted one evening to himself, and he stared at the fireplace in front of him in recompense. He hadn’t taken a single drink from the bottle, still disliking the taste. He liked to hold a glass in his hand, though, and so he let it rest there. He spun the liquid about occasionally, and once got as far as smelling it, but that was as far as it went.

 

Not a single sip.

 

He’d sentenced a man to death earlier that day. He had been a double agent who had outlived his usefulness and had done more damage than was necessary. Mycroft’s mentors had given him permission to deal with the fallout, and he’d ordered his death. He’d watched it happen.

 

He hadn’t gone out of any sense of morbidity. He hadn’t wanted to see the man die. He simply knew that he had to. It was his decision that had terminated the agent’s life, and he refused to let this experience be meaningless. He watched the needle be prepared, he watched the agent thrash against the bonds that held him, and he watched as the poison slowly deteriorated the man’s mind and body until he was nothing but a corpse in a chair.

 

He hadn’t felt anything.

 

He had turned on his heel and had walked back to his office, where he began reading over a new set of objectives that he was meant to complete. He got a cup of tea at some point, he wrote up a report for one of his many mentors, and then he’d simply gone home. He hadn’t cried. He hadn’t sobbed. He hadn’t done anything at all, because he hadn’t felt any need to.

 

He wasn’t happy, per say. In fact, if pressed to describe exactly what his current state of emotions was, ‘neutral’ came the closest. It was simply a fact that had occurred, and there had been no point in changing it in anyway. He had done his job, and the executioners had done theirs. Everything was very efficient, and he’d been pleased that the issue had resolved so quickly.

 

He wondered if it was odd that he hadn’t cared one way or another. Indifference, he’d been told, was a bad path to follow. There was too much indifference in the world, and him adding to the mix might not be the most logical of choices. But Kent had already proven how caring was not an advantage. He and Greg were dead, William was far away, and Mycroft was all that was left. If indifference kept that kind of pain away, then Mycroft would gladly forgo all emotions in the end.

 

There was a brief, efficient knock on the Library door and he blinked himself out of his stupor. Sighing at the interruption, he called out. “Come in.” The door opened and a blonde woman stepped in. She wasn’t one of his usual guards and he watched her carefully as she approached. “You’re-”

 

“A field agent, yes. I’ve been sent over to ensure you don’t kill yourself.” She informed him, settling into a chair across from him. “Or, in any event, ensure that if you do kill yourself you go in a way that’s not going to be too difficult to clean up.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Wouldn’t want you making a mess, is all. The higher ups hate messes.”

 

“And which messes are most dissatisfactory?”

 

“Bullet wounds for one. Never shoot yourself in the head – causes a fair bit of trouble for those left behind. Splatter and all.” She looked towards the walls that were lined with books. “Have you read all of those?”

 

“No.” He sighed and pressed a hand to his brow to cast away the headache that was starting to form behind his eyes.

 

“Shame.”

 

“Yes. Who are you exactly?”

 

“Kate Winslow. I’m to be your assistant until such a time where you deem it unnecessary.” She was barely taller than he was and he was still growing. He could see no muscle to speak of on her body, and he was fairly certain she’d break a nail prior to being of any use.

 

“My assistant?”

 

“Yes. It’s my job to watch you get up and move about your life like a proper member of our favorite shadow society. Nothing you eat or drink will go without being properly tested and looked over. Your safety is now my priority. Should anything, save your likely suicide, happen to you, I’ll be responsible for it.”

 

“I hardly think Rudy is going to poison me.” Mycroft told her. “And I’m not contemplating my suicide.”

 

“Good, it makes such a mess.”

 

“So you’ve said.” Mycroft muttered. “I’d like to be left alone now.”

 

“You’re never alone. You gave up that option when you agreed to walk this path. Your life isn’t yours to control any more than mine is. I’ve a job, you’re it.”

 

“Then start reading from the bottom left and work your way around the library, Kate. I’ve no interest in talking to you, and quite frankly you bore me already. If you won’t leave me alone, the least you could do is _shut up_.” She grinned toothily and did exactly as she was told.

 

Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned his head back on his couch. He knew why she was here, and despite her flippant attitude, he could feel her attention on him as she read her book. He’d sentenced a man to die hours earlier, and apparently someone had not handled this experience well in the past. He wondered if he was reacting appropriately enough for his mentors.

 

Did they find fault in his performance?

 

He wondered what William was doing. He wondered if his brother had recovered well from his kidnapping, and if he was tolerating their parents. He hoped he wasn’t being bored to death, at the very least. More than once he’d thought about calling his family, just to see what they were doing, and how William was managing.

 

Every time he thought about it, he remembered the details of Kent’s death. He remembered the crash, the bodies, the death toll. He remembered the shattered look on his brother’s face. _Never again_. He told himself. He would never make the same mistake again.

 

He set his glass down on the table by his couch and he breathed in deep. He cleared his mind, and allowed everything to wash over him in an endless calm. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He repeated the action several times. His muscles became heavier and even his headache seemed less extreme.

 

He listened to the sounds of the house, and when a phantom laugh from his brother attempted to distract him, he pushed it away and paid it no mind. William was gone, and even if he hated their parents, he was safe there. Nothing was going to happen, and he could do his job properly.

 

He had to remind himself that he liked his job, every so often. Just a brief reminder to cast aside any lingering doubts that he might have had. It hardly mattered; he was going to be working this job for the rest of his life. He’d burnt all the bridges he had before.

 

Deciding he could really do with some sleep, he pushed himself up and left the Library without so much as a goodnight to Kate. She wasn’t his responsibility, and he was in no mood to babysit her in return for her attention to him. Instead, he walked up the stairs to his bedroom. He’d moved himself out of his and William’s old room, choosing a slightly larger single bed chamber that was completely different. He liked the change, he’d needed it. Sleeping in that room would have been torture, and he was glad to be free of it.

 

Mycroft hadn’t anticipated that Kent’s will had named him executor and that the man had left everything to him. He’d always assumed that should Kent die, his belongings would go to his family. When he questioned it, he was told that his family already believed that he was dead. Mycroft hated the sound of that, though he knew it made the most sense.

 

There were a few odds and ends that Kent had left for William that Mycroft hadn’t had the strength to post out yet. Mycroft had run his fingers over Kent’s violin, struggling to comprehend how sending it to William was going to make anything better. William was likely traumatized by what had happened. Sending the violin would only make things worse.

 

The sheet music that Kent had been working on had been named _My Little Pirate_ , and was dedicated to William. It sat crinkled at the bottom of a box Mycroft couldn’t explain. Knick-knacks and treasures had been collected for William’s use only, and Mycroft knew it was his responsibility to send them along, but he was failing in that duty by the sense of brotherly love that still resided within him.

 

He didn’t want to cause William more pain by giving him reminders of the past he should be forgetting. If he could wipe the memories from William’s mind, he would do so in a heartbeat. He would ensure that William never knew Kent, or Greg, or about any of the things that happened in this house. He’d have William stripped bare of all the tragedy and stay perfectly content and protected at his side.

 

Mycroft put the box of things to be sent to William on the boy’s old bed, locked the door, and never looked back on it. He didn’t want to think about it, and while he knew it was wrong: he wouldn’t have his brother thinking on those things. He wouldn’t let William obsess over every detail until he drove himself mad. He simply wouldn’t.

 

Mycroft had a new room, a new outlook on life, and his family was a No Fly Zone that he took very seriously. No danger would touch them, so long as he was there as a shield. The world would never know he cared, because he would never talk to them again. He would never interact with them again.

 

He’d move forward and he’d ignore them with every fiber of his being. He’d become victorious where Kent had failed. He’d never let anyone get close. He’d never care about anyone ever again.

 

Mycroft knew it was going to hurt. He’d seen the signs of that already. There was no one left behind to ask him if he was all right, and actually care about his response. Even if someone did ask it wouldn’t change anything He knew he wasn’t doing well, but there was nothing he could do to change that. He just needed to keep moving on.

 

So he did.


	2. The Animal in the Zoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock decides to visit Sherrinford. He has something he wants to say, and nothing will stop him from doing so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Sherrinford's mental state is not healthy. He is certifiably insane. This chapter has graphic depictions of violence not otherwise seen in this story. Please be advised.
> 
> Beta Reader: Chanel
> 
> All mistakes mine!

Sherlock hadn’t known what to expect when he asked his parents about potentially visiting Sherrinford. They became increasingly nervous and uncertain about how to proceed, but he’d pressed the issue. He wanted to know more about his oldest brother. For years he’d been kept out of the loop where Sherrinford was concerned, and he was tired of it. Mycroft had wanted to keep him far away from Sherrinford, but Mycroft wasn’t here anymore. In fact, Mycroft hardly mattered at all. He’d made his role in Sherlock’s life very clear: he wanted nothing to do with him. That being the case, what Mycroft wanted was inconsequential. He couldn’t lord over Sherlock’s life if he wasn’t going to be a part of it.

 

“I know you miss Mikey, Wi- _Sherlock_.” His mother was still getting used to the name change. “But talking to Sherrinford isn’t going to make you feel better.” She finished, fretting over his hair, his clothes, _anything_ just to keep busy. She did that when she didn’t know what else to do. She fixed things, adjusted them, set things back into place. She twisted handkerchiefs in her hands and grew increasingly agitated if she couldn’t put things right.

 

His father, by contrast, just sat there. He held his cup of tea in his hands, and while he sipped it occasionally, the cup was mainly for warmth. He hugged the cup close to his chest, tucking his nose down towards it and letting the steam rise up across his face. He rolled his lips back and forth, thinking through their movement. When he finally did look up at Sherlock, his eyes were creased downwards with obvious concern. It was almost enough to make Sherlock call off the whole attempt.

 

“Why do you want to see Sherrinford?” His father asked him.

 

“Why do you?” He returned, not willing to back down just yet.

 

“Because he’s my son, and a parent never forgets the love they feel for their child.” That wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. Sherlock had seen more than one child at school that wasn’t suffering from an overabundance of love from their parents. He’d seen bruises, and awkward behavior that no one else seemed to find important. He’d asked his professors about it more than once, but was always told to mind his own business. He never liked it.

 

But his parents weren’t like that. They loved openly and unconditionally. They forgave him his trespasses and welcomed him back into their home even when Mycroft deemed him unworthy. They were willing to work with him, and even though changing his name was something that he knew must have ached – they never complained. His mother slipped up from time to time, when her mind moved faster than her mouth and habit contorted the name before it left her lips. She always corrected herself and apologized about it, and he was learning to forgive her lapses. At least she was trying.

 

His father was much slower than his mother. He rarely spoke without a hefty pause prior. He sounded his words out like English wasn’t his natural language, he was very careful in how he said them. He relied on facial expressions or body movements rather than actual words, and he spent so much time analyzing what he was going to say, that sometimes he missed the opportunity to speak. He never forgot to say Sherlock’s name correctly, but when he was finally prepared to use it – he’d scripted out what he was going to say perfectly regardless.

 

Sherlock shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “He’s my brother, doesn’t the same apply?” He asked carefully. His father paused, processed, and prepared his response.

 

“Do you love your brother, Sherlock?

 

“Yes.” He replied immediately.

 

“Do you love _both_ of them?” His father pressed.

 

Sherlock thought about Mycroft turning his back and walking away while the police ripped him from his home. He thought about how he hadn’t even come to visit him in the hospital. How his brother had been so enamored by his job and his prospects that he hadn’t even asked if he was all right. Sherrinford had tried to kill him, but at least hatred required an emotional reaction. At least hatred meant that Sherrinford actively wanted to engage Sherlock in some way. Mycroft hadn’t even tried that. Sherlock had been too inconsequential to even be allowed to stay in the only home he’d felt perfectly content in, only days after he’d watched two men he cared about die.

 

“How can I love someone who sends me away?” Sherlock asked quietly. “I just want to talk to Sherrinford…and see him for myself. If it turns out badly I won’t ask again.”

 

His parents exchanged a worried look, but he knew they’d relent in the end. They always did.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

In the days leading up to the meeting, Sherlock was at the mercy of his parents’ coddling. They insisted that he be fully aware of what he would be faced with. Sherrinford wasn’t in a happy place, and there were several individuals behind those walls that could be seen as dangerous. There was nothing to fear, he wouldn’t be in any danger, but it could be disturbing at times. Sherlock listened patiently, knowing that any sign of resistance could lead to the whole visit being cancelled.

 

He didn’t actually know where his brother was at the moment, so he’d only be able to see him with their cooperation. His mother told him about the rules and regulations of the hospital. She informed him of the lifestyle his brother had been leading (it sounded _dreadfully_ boring). She even discussed some of Sherrinford’s treatment programs.

 

She cautioned him that Sherrinford may not be exactly as he remembered, and Sherlock nodded his head and thanked her for offering the information. His father still looked uncertain. He unconsciously sat closer to Sherlock whenever he worked on his trains, polishing and shining each caboose, adjusting necessary decals, and dusting the faux foliage that stood sentry over his track. He looked up to Sherlock routinely, never saying anything but clearly bothered by the decision his youngest son had made.

 

Sherlock didn’t mention his observations to his father, preferring to ignore that the man’s anxiety existed to begin with. He had no idea how he was meant to calm him while still obtaining what he wanted. He kept his thoughts to himself, even when he was crawling into bed one night and glanced at his nightstand to find his father’s favorite locomotive sitting next to his bed.

 

Sherlock ran his fingers over it, feeling the intricate detail along the windows and the wheels and gears that worked the steam engine. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, with each part rotating and turning as it made its way around its track. His father had worked on it for days and though it had been remarkably dull to Sherlock, he’d listened as the man talked about the historical significance of this particular locomotive. It was one of the first ever made and the name was embossed in gold paint along the bottom of the model. It was the only part that wasn’t factual.

 

Gently placing the locomotive back on his nightstand, Sherlock rolled over and pulled Red Beard up to his chest so he could sleep easier. The Irish Setter let out an undignified groan from his nose and wagged his tail against Sherlock’s legs. “I know.” Sherlock murmured. “It’s how I feel too.” He said softly.

 

In the morning his parents told him that they’d decided to allow him to visit Sherrinford, and they would take him to the hospital on Saturday. It couldn’t come too soon.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Sherrinford Holmes had suffered through therapy and isolation for over a year. He’d learned how to last within the new confines of his life. It was a simple enough thing. The rules were easily followed, and the workers were lulled into complacency due to his easy going and understanding nature. He never fought, never argued, never complained.

 

In therapy he discussed the many issues he knew he had, and he was always sure to thank his doctors for their time and patience with rehabilitating him. While they offered him advice and assistance, he entertained himself with thoughts of stripping their flesh from their bones and separating muscle and tendons. Instead of voicing his dreams he merely accepted their words of “wisdom” and politely enquired how he could get better.

 

The utensils were carefully monitored to ensure he hadn’t tried to smuggle one away to make a weapon. The food was bland, the taste was abysmal, and Sherrinford liked the idea of keeping the chefs locked in a room with no window or door, force-feeding them whole vats of the stuff until their stomachs rebelled and every mouthful led to vomiting.

 

He lounged in his room, thinking dark thoughts and enjoying every last one of them. He had nothing to fear from the people at this hospital. They didn’t have any control over who or what he was. He knew that well enough. It was why there were guards lurking about the corners, watching him at all times.

 

Just how the police weren’t police, there were guards here who weren’t just nurses with power complexes. Their bodies and their attention told a different story entirely. They were meant to watch everyone in this building, but instead, they seemed to always watch him. He knew if he brought this observation up to the psychiatrists meant to be rehabilitating him, they would tell him it was merely a latent onset of paranoia.

 

He wasn’t paranoid, though. He memorized their schedule and their rotations became laughably easy to predict. Same people, all the time, and their eyes always lingered just a touch too long on _him_. Pathetic, really. They should have sent someone _better_ to watch him.

 

He knew his limitations, however. He couldn’t act so long as they were there. While he played with the good doctors and their happy pills that dulled his mind and made his stomach curdle, the real people he needed to satisfy were these ghosts. They never spoke to him, never interacted with him, but he knew that they were the most important people he had to prove his repentance to.  

 

Sherrinford walked past them and took in everything that he saw. He remembered whenever they grew tense, he remembered whenever they were satisfied, _he remembered_. He listened to the whispered conversations over hushed phone-calls. Someone named Kent had died and that changed things. The guards were uncertain of their loyalties and their position. They were waiting for a directive they likely had not received yet.

 

Then, almost two months after that, the real whispers started. Things were changing in this hospital While he was content to sit back and watch, he wanted to know more. He was impatient for a final nail in their coffin, a nail that would explain everything about the oddities he’d been observing.

 

It came, far later than he expected, in the form of a notice from his key psychiatrist. Dr. Reynolds looked at him over the top of his glasses and stated that his little brother had requested a visit. Sherrinford had expected many things, but he hadn’t expected that. “Mikey?” He questioned, slowly, intrigued. He could only imagine what his little brother had to say to him.

 

“No, William.”  Reynolds stated, glancing back down onto his desk to confirm his words. He shuffled the page in front of his face, squinting at it for several long moments before looking back to Sherrinford.

 

While Reynolds was distracted, Sherrinford called forth the image of his emaciated youngest brother, shaking and terrified at Mycroft’s side. This was a turn of events Sherrinford _hadn’t_ expected. Mycroft would not let William visit him even if William thought it was worth his while. The surprise was delicious.

 

“How has he been?” Sherrinford asked, feigning curiosity as he leaned forwards. It was a sign of eagerness, and it was the correct response, clearly.

 

“He and Mycroft moved to London for a year, and William returned not too long ago. He’s going by ‘Sherlock’ now.”

 

“Sherlock?” Sherrinford couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled from his throat. “Mikey named him that when he was born.”

 

“Yes, so I’ve been informed. We’ve decided, due to your good behavior and your previous successful visits with your parents, to allow the visit to go ahead. They’ll be here tomorrow.” Reynolds was still watching him, and Sherrinford nodded his head in excitement.

 

“I look forward to it. He’s…eight now? He must have grown.” Sherrinford enjoyed making statements that could have alternative meanings. He enjoyed watching how it made them all squirm, wondering what his intentions were. “We’ll be meeting in the Separated Room?” He knew they wouldn’t allow anything more than that.

 

Separated Rooms allowed visitors to talk to their loved ones, but only with a sheet of Plexiglas between them. There were few sorts of visits that allowed physical contact, and so far Sherrinford had been denied them all. His parents had weakly attempted to petition for the ability to do so, but their efforts had never come to fruition. He hadn’t cared until this point.

 

What he could _do_ to an eight-year-old mind…

 

“Obviously.” Reynolds stated firmly. “This is your first meeting with your brother since you arrived here. We’d like to observe the interaction and ensure that all goes well.”

 

“Of course, I’d expect nothing less. Anything to ensure that everyone feels adequately protected.” He smiled, and Reynolds’ eyes narrowed.

 

“Indeed. That’s all the time we have for today.” He stood up and the door opened so his escort could bring him back to his room. Sherrinford said goodbye to the doctor, and smiled as he walked away.

 

William coming to see him. Now, that was a turn up wasn’t it?

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Sherrinford could barely sleep that night. His mind kept drifting back to his little brother. It seemed that now that Mycroft was not around smothering him, William had grown a backbone after all. It was such a lovely concept. He wondered what the boy looked like, and just what he’d been doing in London. He’d never suspected that William would enjoy a big city like that, and it didn’t seem like he’d been wrong. William had left after a year…Mycroft had stayed.

 

He couldn’t imagine what kind of circumstances would separate the boys. Mycroft had always been ridiculously clingy, and William had always made it clear that his place was at his brother’s side. William was too young to attend the same types of public schools as Mycroft, so it couldn’t have been that or he wouldn’t have been there to begin with.

 

He thought back to his parents’ visits. They had looked more careworn and exhausted over the past few months than they had at any other of their meetings with him. No, not just the past few months – for a while now. They had been…different. Usually they were very tight lipped about William and Mycroft, but lately they were more uncomfortable about them than ever before. Sherrinford found it to be exasperating. Something had obviously happened to the boys, and now he was going to find out was it was.

 

Sherrinford tapped his fingers against his lips as he tried to imagine exactly what would cause the boys to leave. Maybe they ran away? It was unlikely they could have made it to London and disappeared for over a year. Not only that, but only William had come home. Mycroft stayed behind. That was unnatural. If they’d run away and been found out, William wouldn’t leave without Mycroft and vice versa.

 

The possibilities were endless, and Sherrinford tossed and turned as he tried to put them all into some sort of order. He lined them up in his mind, shooting holes in them when they proved useless. When that became boring, he started to dream about tomorrow. He wondered what William was doing now. He wondered if he was lying awake that night thinking about him.

 

How that must _burn_ Mycroft’s soul.

 

The sun rose far too slow, but Sherrinford grinned when he saw the beams shining through his window. Only a few hours now. He could wait that time. It wouldn’t be difficult. He closed his eyes and willed himself to enjoy a moment of respite before the nurse came with his daily medication. He’d take it with the same skill and gusto that he always did. He didn’t _care_ about that. He only cared about the meeting.

 

He closed his eyes and breathed deep, letting his body relax into his mattress. A smile played on his lips even as he felt sleep finally dig its claws into his cranium and drag him away from consciousness. The only thing sleep was good for, after all, was advancing time.

 

There was a knock on his door that startled him out of his slumber, and the sun had risen fully. He nearly leapt for joy and he turned to look at the nurse with a bright grin. She rose a brow at him, and handed him his paper cup filled with pills. He swallowed them effortlessly. They never worked on him, anyway.

 

“You’re happy today.” The nurse commented. Her name was Angela. She’d been working with him since he’d arrived, and she always looked and acted the same way. Her ponytail was messy, her skin was free of makeup, and her scrubs were well maintained. She was a generally polite and kind individual, though she was skilled with a syringe and had no compunctions about stabbing it into unruly patients in order to administer sedatives promptly.

 

Sherrinford’s favorite image of her was one where he broke her legs and arms, strung her up like a marionette, and danced her across the room. She always wanted to learn how to dance, and he’d offered to teach her one day. She’d agreed, smiling at him, on the condition that he be released from the hospital first. It fit in perfectly with what he had in mind, so he wasn’t offended in the slightest by her hesitant behavior.

 

Every time he saw her, he enjoyed thinking that it wouldn’t take much to dislocate her bones and to make her utterly malleable to his command. He’d plaster her face with makeup and put her in a frilled out dress. He wouldn’t give her any pain medicine, and as she danced she’d cry and it would be perfect.

 

“I am happy.” He told her with a grin. She arched a brow at him.

 

“Good night?” She asked, and he opened his mouth to show that he hadn’t hidden the pills under his tongue.

 

“Somewhat. I was…anticipating today’s visit.” He said casually. “It was hard to sleep.”

 

“Your brother’s coming today, isn’t he? First time.” She pat his arm in a friendly manner to show that she approved of his taking his dose. He nodded to her.

 

“Yes. Yes it is.” Then, realizing he needed to push more. “I have a lot to make up for in his eyes. It’s a good place to start.”

 

“Some people don’t forgive us our misdeeds, Sherrinford. Remember that before you go in. It might not be the meeting you hope for.” It was sound advice, and he knew it to be true. He’d seen more than a few patients in this hospital denied the clemency they longed for.

 

“I appreciate you telling me that.” He told her, meaning it sincerely. There was so much he was looking forward to in this meeting, but if he was honest with himself he would say this: he didn’t expect forgiveness from William. Not yet. So long as he planted a seed, it was good enough for him.

 

Angela had him get changed into a fresh outfit, and then led him to the cafeteria to eat his morning meal. He could feel the drugs start to slow his reaction time to the world around him, but it was manageable. It didn’t change anything else. It merely made him sluggish. He could handle that. His pills removed the hyper-focused lens that he was so used to and stripped it back to a normal sense of attention that he supposed most mundane people possessed.

 

The food was just as bland as it had been for the past five hundred days, but he swallowed each bite. He let his eyes roam about the room, memorizing each person and the illnesses they presented with. So many different methods of diagnosis, it seemed like it all came back to the same types of behavior. They were all psychopaths and sociopaths, hysterical and mad.

 

He couldn’t wait to meet William one more time.

 

Angela escorted him to Dr. Reynolds’ office for a pre-meeting evaluation, and he smiled politely and did what was asked of him during the whole two hour discussion. He affirmed that he had no intentions of harming William in any way, he declared that he would be on his best behavior, he understood that their conversation would be monitored, and he agreed to all terms and conditions as they were specified. If he wanted to see his brother, he had little choice but to comply.

 

Sherrinford wondered what Reynolds would look like after he carved the doctor’s eyes out with his own hands. He wondered what sounds the man would make. Sherrinford would break the bastard’s glasses first, then pin him to the ground, crouch before him and just dig his thumbs into the doctor’s eye-sockets and push.

 

“I would never dream of harming my brother more than I already have.” He told Reynolds sincerely. The man wasn’t impressed, he rarely was. Sherrinford didn’t care about that. That wouldn’t matter in the end.

 

There was a knock at the door. Angela had been replaced with the guards that weren’t guards, and Sherrinford grinned at their arrival. It was the first time he had direct contact with them. It was going to be brilliant to see them up close. They eyed him like he was little better than the shit on the soles of their boots. He eyed them like they were something he saw every day. They were, they just didn’t know how close he’d been watching.

 

With a guard on his left side, a guard on his right, and one directly ahead and behind, Sherrinford was marched down the aisle like he was a captured terrorist preparing for his execution. All he needed were some handcuffs and the image would be complete. He was happy to have graduated out of _that_ particular phase many months ago. He was nonviolent, and they’d had little reason to restrain him since they established that.

 

The Separated Room loomed in the distance, and Sherrinford felt his heart beat faster and faster with delightful anticipation. “Do you have a brother?” He asked the guard on his left. He was ignored. “I’m excited to see mine.” None of them responded. He stopped talking; no point in speaking if no one was going speak back. Conversation was obviously lost on these ingrates.

 

The door opened, he was led inside and placed in a chair. He looked through the Plexiglas, and _there he was_. Sherrinford couldn’t keep the grin off his face, it spread far and wide like a splintered piece of wood hacked by an axe.

 

William had grown. He was at least four inches taller, closer to five. His curls were longer, pushed haphazardly out of his eyes with no real attempt to solidify their restraint. His face had rounded around his cheekbones, no longer stretched thin without any fat to support the skin as it tracked over his bones. His shoulders were held straight and level, posture perfect. He wasn’t smiling, but rather looked like he was analyzing him. His eyes narrowed, and his gaze ran from the top of Sherrinford’s head down to where Sherrinford’s body disappeared from his view.

 

‘Memorizing’ was the word that Sherrinford would use. William was memorizing him. It was a delicious thought, and his tongue unconsciously slipped between his lips to wet them. William’s eyes tracked the wriggling appendage as it dragged across his cracked mouth. Then, at long last, he met his eyes.

 

“Hello, Willie.” Sherrinford greeted, purposefully using the name he knew the boy hated and had run far away from.

 

“Hello, Sherry.” William replied, tilting his chin up defiantly. Fearless. That wasn’t what Sherrinford had expected. Something _had_ changed in the boy. Something that hadn’t existed the last time they saw each other. William had been terrified of him, so terrified he’d stopped eating. He’d been scared. He’d been a total brat about it, of course: always pushing back despite the terror. Like a puppy chasing a car, he didn’t know what to do with it once he got it. William had always been scared, but he’d pushed and pushed at all times, never knowing what to do when Sherrinford finally reacted.

 

“You look well.”

 

“You look like Mycroft.” That…was unexpected. William was so far off script, Sherrinford didn’t know what to say.

 

“Beg your pardon?”

 

“Or perhaps it’s better to say that Mycroft looks like you. You look the same.”

 

Sherrinford summoned an image of his other brother into his mind. They had the same hair, the same shape of their face. William took after their father rather, while they took after their mother. Their eyes were the same color, even their general body type. Sherrinford had never paid it much mind, because frankly it had never occurred to him that Mycroft looked like anything more than a close relative.

 

“We are siblings.” Sherrinford said, not sure how he was meant to reply. William snorted. He stood up, and his height difference became more pronounced.

 

“So we are.” He said. “Goodbye.” Sherrinford blinked rapidly, words rolling around in his head but not formulating properly when he tried to speak.

 

“That’s it?” He asked, anger and irritation growing to a level he hadn’t felt in ages. William peered down his nose at him, giving him a superior expression that rankled on Sherrinford’s nerves and made his vision go red.

 

“That’s it.”

 

“Why did you come then? Just to see me?”

 

“You’re like an animal in a zoo, exotic and interesting from afar, but after a few minutes: boring and unnecessary. Not something you’d want or need in your home life.” That bordered on the cruel and unusual. Sherrinford’s fury was mounting to untold proportions.

 

“I’m not an animal, Willie.”

 

“Are you not?” William grinned. “You’re pathetic.”

 

“You can’t just come and abuse me.” William’s eyes lifted to look at the guards now, and Sherrinford felt ice settle in his veins. A quick glance revealed that more than one of them was looking at William in return. William’s eyes narrowed even further in concentration. He showed them more interest than he showed Sherrinford.

 

“You’re right, Sherry. I can’t just come and abuse you.” He murmured the words softly, and his gaze returned to him one last time. “But I’m not actually here to see you. So if you would just shut up?” He turned his attention back to the guards. “Your original employer is dead, and his heir is making all the decisions now. They may have thought I wasn’t paying attention, but I was and I saw everything and so I want you to give him a message for me.” They didn’t reply. “Tell him that I will never forgive him for what he did, and that I deserved better. Tell him that he made a choice four months ago, and that if that’s what he wants – _fine_ , but he needs to do it properly. I don’t want to see, hear, or talk to him ever again. He will leave me and my family alone, and I do mean my _entire_ family. He has no business with any of us, including Sherrinford, any longer. That’s my choice, and if he’s not willing to listen to it – he still has superiors that will. You give him that message.”

 

The guards didn’t reply. Sherrinford looked back and forth between them all, struggling to work out exactly what was happening. William nodded sharply to them, turned on his heel and walked away. He didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t offer an explanation, he just walked away. Sherrinford watched him go, hands trembling with excess energy.

 

Things _had_ changed.

 

William just became a lot more interesting.


	3. Something About Trains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock joins his father on a trip north. Part of the healing process is knowing when you're not okay. Sherlock doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again to Chanel for her wonderful beta read.
> 
> All mistakes found are mine.

Sherlock never received an answer from Mycroft. He’d thought that if he kicked up enough dirt his brother might get back in touch with him. It was a long shot, and it hadn’t worked. That was fine. Sherlock was getting used to his siblings disappointing him. He was more than equipped to handle it.

 

What he did receive, and hadn’t been expecting, were letters from Sherrinford. His parents had told him the letters existed, and that they could give them to him if he  wanted them. After a short deliberation, Sherlock decided that having all the facts was the only way to adequately prepare for the future. He accepted each letter and retreated to his room to evaluate them.

 

_Dear Willie,_

_I’ve thought about your visit often since you left, and I’ve wondered what it meant. Our parents obviously didn’t know you were going to say what you did, they weren’t even in the room with you. You must have asked them to stay behind. What I do know is that there have been some changes here since you’ve spoken with me…changes that I feel your visit caused. For that alone, I offer you my appreciation._

_You should come by sometime for a proper visit, I’d like to speak with you again._

_Your brother,_

_Sherrinford_.

 

The news was only somewhat surprising. It seemed that Mycroft’s refusal to speak with him was not a reflection of his ability to listen. Either that or his superiors truly had stepped in and yanked the guards from the hospital. It was better that way. Sherlock may not care for his oldest brother the way he once cared for Mycroft, but that didn’t mean that he liked the thought of Sherrinford being surrounded the way he had been. It seemed…excessive.

 

He decided to write back. He had no interests in interacting with Sherrinford on a face to face basis, particularly not when he realized how close Mycroft and Sherrinford resembled each other. But, letters were harmless things that could get his point across. He’d entertain the correspondence and that would be the end of it.

 

_Dear Sherry,_

_I’m not going to come and visit you, my motivations for going to the hospital had very little to do with helping you in any way. I’m satisfied by the response, but it is irrelevant to your current position._

_~Sherlock_.

 

He sent the letter standard mail, and spent the remainder of the week without so much as a thought towards Sherrinford or what was happening with the man. His father invited him to attend a model train show, and finding little else to do, he’d agreed. His mother fretted over the whole trip, and insisted on packing his bag for him.

 

It was a useless and meaningless task, because as soon as her back was turned he unpacked it and reorganized it the way he wanted it to be. Socks, pants, trousers, shirts, and miscellaneous items all had a special place in his bag to maximize efficiency. His ink pens needed to be kept with his notebooks, which needed to be kept separated from his clothing incase the pens pressurized and broke. Socks and pants needed to be kept in the left hand side of the case, and the folding needed to be exact or precious seconds were wasted undoing it in the morning. She always got everything wrong. She even put the wrong outfits in. He didn’t want to wear the clothes she chose, so he dragged those out of his big and filled it on his own.

 

Red Beard looked miserable as he descended down the stairs with his bag. The dog wouldn’t be able to go with him, and Sherlock pushed down the anxiety that thrummed through him at the thought of leaving the beloved Irish Setter behind. He ran his hand through the dog’s thick coat, and murmured a soft goodbye before hurrying out the door with his father.

 

His father had pulled out all the stops, and decided early on that they absolutely had to travel by train. He liked the symmetry of it, and Sherlock enjoyed the pattern as well. They hurried to the station and climbed aboard in short order. It was the first time Sherlock had ever been on a train, and he looked around it with mounting interest. It was bigger than he imagined it to be, and it was far more lavish than he suspected.

 

He’d heard his father talk about the construction of trains for so long that he’d had this image of metal and gears making up even the seats they sat on. Instead, there were dozens of cabins in each carriage, each one made with fine wood. The seats were firm, but not so hard as to cause discomfort. The windows were stained with fingerprints, and they didn’t appear to open either.

 

His father lifted his suitcase to put it on the rack above them, and then sat down with a bright smile. Sherlock smiled with him, and even though it was about things he already knew, he listened to his father ramble endlessly about trains and what they did and how they worked. He’d heard much of it before and ignored almost all of it because it held little interest to him.

 

This show they were going to was in Scotland, and it was going to be hosted at the home of a rather eccentric collector. He held the show every year at his house, issuing a private invitation to all of the most avid collectors in the United Kingdom. Sherlock’s father sheepishly admitted that he’d never received an invitation before, and that when it arrived in the mail he’d been remarkably touched by it.

 

“I just completed my 500th train.” His father reminded him rather proudly. “It was in the local paper, and Mr. Fletcher said he saw it. He wished to congratulate me on my dedication to our trade.”

 

Sherlock remembered that train. It was one of his father’s more modern pieces, sleek and shiny with metal and fresh paint. It sat on display at the center of his father’s largest scenery piece. Sherlock had baked him a cake to celebrate it, and every so often he’d see his father wander over to the train and look at it adoringly.

 

“Why do you like trains so much?” He asked him, when his father had fallen silent. His eyes looked past him to the world passing them by. It was beautiful in a way he couldn’t describe. The great rural lands of England surrounded them, and he found that it was rather relaxing.

 

“They are such complex works of art.” His father breathed, clearly thinking back to his models back home. “Each one is built with a singular purpose in mind, and everything has to be perfect. Steam, coal, oil, electricity – it doesn’t matter how it runs, it matters that it is efficient and effective at its job. Thousands of parts need to fit together just right in order to have it run, and if just one thing is not at full capacity – the entire train could break down. One bolt, Sherlock, just think of that. One loose bolt and this whole train could stop right here.” It wasn’t a good thought, and Sherlock’s mind did what his mother always encouraged it to do: it did the math.

 

The odds…were not in their favor.

 

“How come more trains don’t break down?”

 

“Oh they do, all the time; it just doesn’t get reported in the news. That’s what all the delays can be about. Something breaks and it needs to be fixed and tested, it’s a long process. And do you know what else?”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s not just the trains. Think of it. Hundreds of thousands of trains run all the time, all across the world, and yet only a few of them ever crash into each other. The same tracks are driven in both directions, and yet the number of accidents is miniscule to the number of trains that are navigated. That’s proper planning, proper work ethic, and proper concentration. It’s…controlling what should be chaotic, and forcing it to remain calm.” He was quiet for a little while, and then murmured: “Keep calm and carry on.”

 

“Daddy?” He asked, sensing that there was something deeper here.

 

“I used to live in London.” He said softly. “Your mother too. For many years.”

 

“When she worked for Kent?”

 

“No, long before that.” He shook his head. “Much earlier than that… I was four when war began.” The transition was abrupt and Sherlock had trouble following him. He leaned forwards, watching his father intently. “The trains came in 1939 and we all took one far away to safety.”

 

“What war?”

 

“A World War…the most terrible war there ever was. You could hear it when the planes were coming to drop their bombs. We had to leave. So my parents took me and they put me on a train and they sent us to Wales where we’d be safe.”

 

“Why didn’t they go with you?”

 

“Only children went on the trains, they had to stay behind to work and fight the war. My father died fighting that war. I never saw him again.” The happy smile that had been on the man’s face had fallen and he looked intensely troubled.

 

“And your mother?”

 

“She found me in Wales. We never went back to London, though _your_ mother did.”

 

“Did you know Mummy when you were in Wales?”

 

“We rode that train together. We were smaller than a lot of the other children, and we were pushed to the back. She held my hand the whole journey, and when we arrived in Wales, we begged to stay together. There was some sort of mix-up of paperwork, no one quite knew where we were supposed to go initially, so we were able to go to the same billet.”

 

“Billet?”

 

“That’s what they called the home of the people who volunteered to look after us all.” He said softly. He ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “They were good people. Very good people. When the war was over, my mother came to Wales and found me. It took her so long, because of the mix-up. She didn’t know where I was. When she found me, we decided to stay out of London. Maggie went home with her parents. We didn’t see each other for a long while.” Sherlock didn’t hear his father call their mother ‘Maggie’ often. Usually it was when he was distracted or busy with something, she always would smile and roll her eyes at the name, but she never complained about it.

 

“When’d you see her again?”

 

“We kept in touch; we wrote letters to each other and to the Moore family who took us in. Mr. Moore had polio, and so he couldn’t fight, but what he could do was give us a good education. It was…distracting. Maggie took to it far more than I, and she excelled in math. When she went home, her parents encouraged her to continue. They hired private tutors when she had difficulty getting into a proper school. Mathematics wasn’t considered a womanly degree, and no university would accept her. She never did get her masters or doctorate, despite the work she’s done in her field. She publishes all her studies privately, and in truth, if it hadn’t been for Mr. Kent- she likely wouldn’t have been able to use her mathematical knowledge at all.”

 

“I don’t understand. Why couldn’t she attend? She’s the best at math.”

 

“Times are changing, Sherlock. One day, if you decide to attend University, I hope there are hundreds of women attending classes for mathematics, engineering, and medicine. Not just nurses who receive remedial education that’s been dumbed down for them, but true and proper medicine. There should be women out there operating in surgery, women police officers, and women soldiers. I look forward to that day. I truly do.”

 

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that. He bit his lip and tried to imagine being the man in charge of admittance to a University, denying his mother on the basis of her being a woman and therefore incapable of bettering their institution by having her as an alumnus. “I’m not going to any University that turned Mummy down.” He declared. His father smiled at him and hugged him close.

 

“Don’t decide that just yet.” Sherlock’s father smiled patiently at him. “Your mother was denied access to several of Britain’s finest institutions, if you wish to go to University, you’d do well to attend one of _them_ rather than another school.”

 

“I won’t go to any school that turned Mummy down.” Sherlock repeated mutinously. His father just nodded his head and gave his son a welcome embrace. He more than understood.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The train show wasn’t exactly what Sherlock had been expecting. There were only a few dozen individuals, and they were all very sharply dressed. They treated him like he was a child, always reaching to pat his curls or comment on how fine he looked. He loathed them all on instinct, and quickly found an excuse to sit outside while his father was busy talking with the other enthusiasts.

 

There weren’t many people his age. Those that were fell into two categories: dragged by a parent, or obsessed with trains in their own right. Sherlock didn’t quite feel like he belonged in either category, and so when one tried to spark a conversation regarding the show, he had very little to say. He found their words and mannerisms to be boring and tedious, scowling when they tried to find something in common with him.

 

There _wasn’t_ anything in common between them all. Sherlock actually cared for and respected his father, whereas these children seemed permanently at odds with their parents. Many mocked the hobby, saying it was boring and bordered on the insane. Sherlock wondered if it was entirely appropriate to point out that he had seen the face of insanity, and model trains was not it. He doubted they’d care.

 

Soon, he wasn’t just avoiding the show; he was avoiding all of the people in it. He ducked out of sight if he could help it, and chose to wander about their host’s estate during the many long hours they were to remain there. The grounds were well maintained, and the scenery was beautiful, if nothing else. The high hills and deep valleys that made up their immediate area were striking. Each tree sprang up from the ground as though it had always been there, tall and indomitable. The grass shifted from bright green to hazy yellow, and while the sky was particularly cloudy, it did nothing to distract from the vivid nature of their landscape.

 

He liked it.

 

He realized, suddenly, that he didn’t know much about Scotland or how it was different from England. The accents were obvious, but that didn’t seem to be the determining factor. Londoners spoke differently than the people back home too, but they were all English. There was a distinction there that Sherlock was sure he’d have to make at some point, and he wondered where he could learn more about Scotland.

 

His father might know, but he seemed rather preoccupied at the moment. Giving the house one final look, Sherlock determined that even if it was for pretention, there had to be a library somewhere in there. Rallying himself together, Sherlock marched back across the estate to try his luck in the house.  

 

Immediately he was met with the coos of adoration that he found repulsive and meaningless. He plastered a smile on his face, because he promised to be nice, and kept moving forwards. His father caught his eye as he prepared to duck into a side hall, and the man waved at him in greeting. He waved back, and mimed reading a book. His father looked thoughtful for a moment before he pointed towards the left. Sherlock mouthed a quick ‘thank you’ and hurried in the direction he was shown.

 

There were far less people in this direction, and Sherlock happily avoided all of their nonsense the further he travelled. He eventually found the room his father had advised him on and discovered there were indeed quite a few books inside. He slipped in and immediately planted himself before the first shelf.

 

The names meant nothing to him. Each title seemed more boring than the last. From the lack of boxing around the edges, he could only assume that they meant nothing to the owner either. Several didn’t even have any creases along the spine to show that it had even been opened _once_. He scowled. What was the point of having a library if you didn’t read any of the books inside?

 

He reached out and ran a finger over the spines of the books, walking absently as his eyes scanned for something of interest. There were more books about things as absurd as the color mauve than there was anything of real substance. He wondered what it was supposed to say about a person when he was so obsessed with how things looked.

 

He continued his circuit around the room, and let his fingers run from book to wood to leather. He traced the shelving and the sofa, memorizing the feeling of each surface as his hands danced over each texture. It felt different in this library compared to Kent’s. Each sensation that sparked across his nervous system was stilted and wrong. There was no joy or entertainment, no contentment or pride. This room was an empty shell where it could be so much more.

 

He stopped when he reached the far wall. There was a glass case sitting undisturbed in the corner. On top of it was a violin. Sherlock felt his feet move without conscious demand. His legs were drawn magnetically to the instrument, and soon his hands as well. He gently lifted the violin off its cradle, and he let his fingers drift to the strings. He plucked them absently, and just as absently he began tuning the instrument.

 

He could almost hear Kent now. _Not there yet…not quite…too sharp…too flat…there, isn’t that perfect?_ The solid note rang out pure, and he moved down the strings until they were all finished. He glanced unconsciously over his shoulder, but no one was there watching or condemning his behavior. His eyes searched for a bow and when he caught sight of it, he snatched it up and tightened the hair. He ran his thumbnail across the hair, and frowned. It was brand new. There wasn’t any resin on it. A cursory examination of the glass revealed that there wasn’t any resin in the immediate vicinity either. The bow wouldn’t play.

 

Loosening the bow once more, he returned it to its original position and then rested the violin to his collarbone. The metal from the chin piece dug into his clavicle painfully, and he grimaced at the feeling. Kent had always placed a soft cloth there to keep it from hurting. Determined to play regardless, Sherlock shifted his fingers into position and started a soft pizzicato version of _Campton_ _Races_. That soon drifted into series of folk melodies that were simple enough to remember.

 

Each time he hit a sour note, he started from the beginning and adjusted his hand position. He closed his eyes, and imagined he could hear a fire crackling nearby. He imagined Red Beard curled up at his feet, and the sound of pages turning as his brother read on the couch. He imagined a soft tapping foot and the quiet murmur of Kent’s voice as it counted out the beat. _one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one…_

The more he thought about it, the clearer the vision became. He could recall with perfect clarity the accents on the walls, the dust in the corner that Mycroft never swept up, the order of each book he read on the shelf, the way the light fell from the lamps, even the smell of wood polish, fire, and cologne that always permeated the area.

 

Sherlock didn’t even realize he’d started to play _Swan Lake_ until the door to the library was thrown open. His eyes snapped open and he jumped back, violin clenched in his left hand even as his body pressed against the glass case. His heart thundered in his chest, and his breath came in short gasps.

 

For a moment he didn’t see the teenager in the doorway, for a moment his mind was still locked in the memory of _his_ Library. Instead of a boy with an appalling similarity to the host of the train show, he saw four masked men preparing to rush towards him. He heard Kent whisper a horrible goodbye, a report of gunfire and an echo of his own screams from months ago.

 

“What are you doing in here?” The teenager’s voice overlaid the voices of his captors, and Sherlock felt his body start to shake. He clutched the violin even harder with his left hand, the strings digging into his fingers painfully.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, both libraries mixing with each other in a way that was disorienting and obscene. Sherlock blinked rapidly as he struggled to make sense of what he was looking at. The teenager stomped forwards and yanked the violin from his hands and brandished it like a weapon. “Who gave you permission to touch this?”

 

“I-” The words died in his throat and Sherlock took a stumbling step to the side. He tripped and started to fall. The teenager didn’t do anything to help him, even as Sherlock started to scramble backwards. His knees drew up to his chest and he choked on the air he was trying to breathe. He shook even harder, and suddenly he realized that instead of struggling for breath – he simply _wasn’t_ breathing. He tried to suck in air, but it wasn’t working.

 

“What’s the matter with you?” The teenager’s voice took on an almost panicked concern, but Sherlock wasn’t paying any attention to that. He pressed his hands to his ears and squeezed his eyes as tight as they would go. He didn’t want to listen to what was happening around him, and he certainly didn’t want to answer any questions.

 

The teenager rushed out of the room, shouting about something, and suddenly there was noise and chaos everywhere. People swarmed around Sherlock, all of them talking rapidly and loudly. He shook his head back and forth, trying to get the sounds to stop or at least cease sounding like empty babble. Meaningless words and intonations screeched across his synapses and he couldn’t interpret a single one.

 

The chaos was only increasing, more and more and more. Sharp pain burst between his eyes. His head was expressing its discontent at being treated like this, complaining louder and louder with each passing second. Sherlock agreed, wholeheartedly, that this was unacceptable, but had no means of fixing the problem. He shook harder, flinching if someone placed their hand on him or tried to get him up and moving.

 

“Don’t _touch_ him!” His father’s voice cut through the hysteria that had started on a positive feed-back signal through his body. Each sensation only increased the panic, and it never had a chance to shut down. “Just _out,_ everyone just get out and leave him alone.”

 

Sherlock’s knees were growing wet, and it took him a moment to connect the sensation to a cause. He’d started crying. Something warm wrapped around him, and the noise suddenly came to an abrupt stop. Sherlock took a chance to remove his hands from his ears and take hold of the edges of the soft fabric his father had placed over him. _His jacket_. His mind supplied helpfully.

 

His father didn’t speak. He sat with his legs crossed right next to him, waiting patiently for the panic to start to fade. Sherlock’s breath hitched a few more times, before he finally managed to pull in a lungful of proper air. The relief was short lived. He felt a buzzing just above his sinuses. It wasn’t painful, per say, the headache was using all his pain tolerance at the moment, but it was…uncomfortable. It felt like he couldn’t think of anything, like his brain had been filled with sharp edged cotton that refused to allow conscious thought to take place.

 

He tipped forwards, and then turned, and then found himself in his father’s lap. His father’s arms wrapped around him, tucking the jacket over his head and letting him just rest against his body for however long he needed. “Do you want to go home?” His father asked him quietly, and he nodded against the man’s shoulder. “All right. All right, we’ll go home. You just tell me when you’re ready.”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, he just held onto his father harder, and tried to pretend that he hadn’t ruined his father’s day.


	4. The Method of Loci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's parents realize that he's more than just smart, he has a photographic memory that refuses to let him heal from the trauma of the past. Margaret asks for help from someone she used to work with, and Sherlock comes in contact with the idea of a Mind Palace for the first time.

Sherlock and his father came to an uneasy agreement to never mention what happened at the train show to his mother. Sherlock didn’t want to worry his mother, and his father didn’t want to betray his son’s trust. There was an unsettled agreement, however, that should he ever feel that way again, Sherlock was to talk to him immediately.

 

“I was startled. That’s all.” Sherlock explained softly. He didn’t quite meet his father’s eyes. He was still feeling more cold than usual. He continued to shiver slightly every few minutes, despite the blanket that his father had wrapped around his shoulders.

 

“Startled from what?” Sherlock shrugged, and his father didn’t press.

 

They arrived home late the night before, and his mother had fussed over them for a little while before she went to bed. Sherlock had called Red Beard to his room and done the same. In the morning, his mother had errands to run and went off to finish them while Sherlock stayed behind. Now, he and his father sat at the kitchen table, a chocolate cake between them that neither was eating.

 

Each had a slice, sure, but actually taking their forks and bringing the food to their lips seemed beyond them. Sherlock twisted his utensil on his plate, poking the tines into stray fragments, occasionally spearing a section off the cake to turn into crumbs. Another rogue shiver coursed through him and he tugged his blanket closer.

 

His father had left everything behind in Scotland. He’d picked Sherlock up and carried him from the library and straight into his rental vehicle. He drove Sherlock to the train and they went home. They didn’t collect their belongings; they didn’t stop for the man’s 500th model train that had been put on display. It was still in Scotland with the gawkers and the society whisperers. Sherlock wasn’t sure he knew how he felt about all of that. Frankly, it didn’t feel right at all. But, his father told him it wasn’t important, that Sherlock mattered more, that he just wanted Sherlock to be happy and everything else came second.

 

Sherlock attacked his cake savagely, crushing it and splattering icing around the china. His father stood and poured them each a glass of milk. He set the glasses down between them. Sherlock eyed it miserably. He liked the taste of milk, and drank it often, but the thought of eating or drinking anything at the moment made him unsettled.

 

“A memory.” Sherlock finally said softly. He bit his lip and then tried to piece together what he had seen. “I was in the Library- _Kent’s_ , that is- and Mycroft was reading in front of the fire. Kent was teaching me the violin. Except…it wasn’t a _real_ memory.” Sherlock frowned, not sure how to explain it. “Everything was right, it looked and felt, smelled, and sounded exactly the same, except I never played those songs in that order with Kent. I was doing it _while_ I saw it.”

 

“What do you mean, you saw it?”

 

“I _saw_ it, when I closed my eyes. Like I was actually there. The wood, the dust, the violin, everything. Except I was still the same height as I am now, I was wearing the same clothes as I was at the train show, and Kent was dressed for the ballet. He never taught me in those clothes.”

 

“Like a daydream, then?”

 

“No…he was teaching me how to play it. He was telling me where my fingers were off, he was fixing my intonation, and he was right every time. And then when that boy came in – I was startled. For a moment I didn’t know where I was.” Sherlock set his fork down and shrank his hands back in his lap. His fingers twisted around themselves, squeezing awkwardly in a bad attempt to release tension. “I couldn’t remember I was at a show with you. I thought I was still in London, and my mind came up for a reason for my sudden departure. I saw people – the ones who killed Greg. I saw them in the doorway. But they weren’t there, because I was never in London to begin with, and they didn’t even take us out of the Library in the first place.”

 

Sherlock’s father was quiet for a long while. He too set his fork to the side of his plate. He pushed the cake off to the right and leaned forwards to rest on his forearms. He threaded his fingers together and he watched his youngest son fidget in his seat.

 

“What’s your earliest memory?” His father asked quietly. Sherlock frowned.

 

“Colors. There were lots of colors, and people everywhere. It was loud…but then it was quiet. It’s jumbled back then. But later…there were toys hanging in the air. I could never reach them. They were just out of my grasp. Mycroft read to me, and I’d try to get the toys and I’d sleep-” Sherlock’s father pushed himself away from the table and rounded it. He went to his knees in front of his son and pulled him close to his chest.

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

“Daddy…?” Sherlock murmured, not understanding what he’d said that was so wrong. His father just held onto his tighter.

 

“I’m sorry, son. I really am.”

 

“What’d I do? Was that bad?”

 

“No. no. Not at all.” He didn’t seem to know what to say. He fumbled, grasped at straws, and then asked a few more questions. For every obscure event in their lives, Sherlock could give the exact date. For every outfit ever worn, Sherlock could explain it in excruciating detail. For every little thing, no matter how small or obscure: Sherlock had it plotted away in his mind.

 

Sherlock’s anxiety only grew the more questions his father asked him. Each answer only increased the look of tragedy that had planted itself on his face. His father seemed to be growing more dismayed with each answer, and Sherlock had no idea why. Eventually his mother returned and found them in the kitchen. Sherlock turned to her immediately opening his mouth to explain that he had no idea why his father was so upset.

 

“He has an eidetic memory.” His father told her first, glancing over his shoulder. “He remembers his _crib_.” Sherlock half expected her to just fluff it off.

 

 _Nonsense_. She’d say, waving it away like she did half of the things his father came up with. Instead, her face grew pensive as well.

 

“What does that mean? What’s wrong?” Sherlock cried out, shoving his chair back as he stood up as quick as he could. His father steadied him with a hand on each arm.

 

“Most people don’t remember things that clearly.” His mother explained, setting the groceries down on the counter and sighing. She looked troubled. “They forget things, naturally and without conscious intention. I can barely remember what happened last week, let alone eight years ago. The important events are still there, anything major or impressive. Smaller ones…slip away.”

 

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock told her, frowning. “How can you not know something?”

 

“Oh darling…it’s not intentional.” She whispered, voice breaking.

 

“Why is it bad? What’s wrong with remembering?”

 

“You remember all the good, all the bad, _everything_. You don’t forget the pain of events long past, they haunt you.” Sherlock’s fingers twitched at his sides uncomfortably, and he looked between his mother and father with growing concern.

 

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock told her.

 

“No…no you don’t.” She pressed a hand to her lips as she considered their options. Meanwhile, Sherlock’s father seemed to shift from wanting to hold Sherlock closer and giving him space to breathe. The young boy didn’t quite know which one he preferred. “I need to make some phone calls.” She said at long last. Arthur nodded slowly and gently reached for his son.

 

“Come, we should go upstairs and give your mother some room.”

 

“What’s going on? What’s wrong? I don’t understand.”

 

“Nothing’s wrong, darling.” Margaret soothed hopefully.

 

“You’re lying.” Sherlock hissed. “You’re lying! What’s wrong? What’s wrong with me?”

 

“Nothing! There’s nothing wrong with you. Don’t you _ever_ say that again. You’re perfect. Do you understand that? You’re perfect.” Sherlock’s mother sank to her knees and pressed her hands to his face. She gave it a firm squeeze, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Listen to me. You are brilliant, and flawless. You are a better human being than anyone has a right to be, and that is both a blessing and a curse. You have such _talent_ within you, and I need to make some phone calls to find the best way to help you with those skills. All that pain in your mind. All the death and despair…wouldn’t you like for that pain to be less powerful? To not haunt you so much? To not feel like you were still living through it with every waking moment?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then I need to make some calls. I know people who can help. Now…go with your father.” She released his face, and Sherlock stepped backwards into his father’s side. He felt the man gently place a hand on his shoulder and encourage him to walk out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. Vaguely he was aware that his feet were moving, but his mind was spinning out of control. He wanted it to stop more than anything else. If she could find a way to fix it…then he would take it. He would.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

They called it the Memory of Loci. It was a technique used by the ancient Greeks to never forget anything. Sherlock flipped through the pages of the book his mother gave him with interest. The human mind never forgot anything; not really, it simply was harder for some people to access those memories.

 

His brain had no trouble connecting the pieces. He already saw it all. The pictures slammed in front of his eyes, the noise silenced all outside sounds, the smells over-burdened his senses entirely. He couldn’t keep them out, he couldn’t forget. It wasn’t just a photographic memory, eidetic or otherwise, it was a flawless recollection. It was maddening, and he was realizing that more and more each day.

 

His mother insisted that he talk to someone about it and was confident it would help. He soon found himself sitting in front of an old and wrinkled woman wearing a sharp shirt, blazer, and neat slacks. She had short blond hair that was turning a spectacular shade of white, and wore jewelry modestly. She took her tea with no additives, and she didn’t seem to have the capacity to smile. Sherlock thumbed through the pages of his book, not bothering to look up or acknowledge her in any way. She didn’t seem to care one way or another.

 

In a battle of wills, both were prepared to dig in their heels and refuse to budge. While Sherlock read, the woman watched him with unwavering focus. His fingers tightened around the binding of his book, and he clenched his teeth. She treated him like a specimen under examination, and he didn’t appreciate it in the slightest.

 

Arthur worked on his trains nearby, and Margaret hovered uncertainly, but no one spoke for hours. Margaret bustled about, placing plates of food and cups of drink between them, but neither combatant acknowledged it. When the sun started to sink, the woman’s watch let out an annoying chirp. She stopped it with a slight compression.

 

Standing up, she bid her goodbyes to all of them, called Sherlock a stubborn bastard, and promised to return in the morning. Sherlock tilted his chin upwards, considered it a victory, and marched to his room. They repeated it every day for two weeks. Six hours a day of mutinous silence that was only broken by pages turning in Sherlock’s book, led to Margaret looking strained and Arthur looking curious.

 

The whole experience might have lasted an eternity if Sherlock hadn’t had a fight with one of the boys at school. There were auditions for a dance recital and Sherlock had tried out. He’d been accepted, and immediately afterwards a boy had made a lewd comment that Sherlock hadn’t enjoyed.

 

Tension was vibrating from his shoulders when he threw open the door to his home, and there was that damned woman, sitting in the kitchen with his mother. “Can’t you just go away?!” Sherlock yelled, throwing his book bag down onto the ground and shaking with repressed adrenaline.

 

“Oh? Are we speaking now?” She asked him, arching a brow and taking a sip of her bland tea.

 

“What do you even want?”

 

“I’m curious to know how you work, Sherlock.” She said simply. “Now, pick up your bag and put it away properly.”

 

“Fuck off!” Sherlock hissed.

 

“Sherlock!” His mother chastised immediately.

 

“Oh, aren’t you clever? Do you have any more?”

 

“Why can’t you just piss off?”

 

“Because I have no reason to do so.”

 

“I don’t want to talk to you!”

 

“Well bully for you.” The woman placed her drink down on the counter with a soft clink of china against marble. “Pick up your bag and set it right.” Sherlock’s fists clenched at his sides and he didn’t move. Margaret looked from her son to the woman she’d called in with nervous agitation. Arthur slowly walked into the room, watching quietly from the back of it all.

 

Sherlock slowly reached down, lifted the bag by its strap and placed it properly on the hook by the door. He didn’t take his eyes off his parent’s guest the whole while. She nodded her head curtly, gave him a grim smile, and stood up from her seat. “Come with me.” She told him, snapping her fingers like she was calling a dog to heel.

 

She marched clear out the door, and Sherlock followed right behind her. Red Beard attempted to follow them, but Margaret cut him off before he had the chance. Sherlock was glad of it, because frankly he didn’t want anyone there when he struck the old hag for everything she’d said.

 

She led him into the woods, and Sherlock followed her the whole way. Once they were out of sight of the house with no witnesses, save the squirrels, she stopped walking and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. Sherlock watched her as she tapped out a cigarette and tossed him the pack. He caught it in surprise.

 

“If you’re going to fight like an adult, you might as well act like one.” She informed him primly, lighting her fag and drawing from it. Sherlock just stared at the pack, flat footed by the exchange. “What’s got your knickers in a twist?”

 

“None of your business.”

 

“You’re right, you belligerent little tosser. It’s really none of my business.” She blew a cloud of smoke towards him and he swatted at it in frustration. “But your mummy and I came to an agreement. She wants me to help you, and I said I would. So you’re stuck with me, sissy boy, until you start shaping up like a good little soldier. Understood?”

 

“And who _are_ you exactly?” Sherlock asked, feigning sweetness even as his teeth bared in savage distaste.

 

“Olivia Mansfield. I used to work with your mother.” Sherlock frowned, letting that thought travel around his head for a moment.

 

“You knew Thomas Kent.”

 

“Yes I did. He was right bastard, but I worked for him all the same.”

 

“He was not!” Sherlock hissed. Olivia scoffed loudly and tapped the end of her fag before drawing it back for another breath.

 

“He was a loony and I knew him far longer than you did, pretty boy-”

 

“Stop calling me names!”

 

“Does it bother you?” She sounded honestly interested in his answer, and Sherlock wondered if he really could just strike her and be done with this whole mess.

 

“No.”

 

“You’re a shite liar. Work on that.”

 

“No.” Sherlock replied.

 

“Contrary to the last.” Olivia finished her cigarette and tossed it to the ground. Stepping on it, she rubbed it into the dirt until it had been sufficiently extinguished. “Your mother said you’ve been reading about the Method of Loci.”

 

“It’s useless to me. I already _have_ a photographic memory, why on earth would I want to make it stronger?” Sherlock asked her.

 

“Your memory is astounding, though I’m frankly astonished you haven’t lost your marbles yet.” It was a backhanded compliment at best. “The Method of Loci is a way to organize memories in order to find them and re-evaluate them for future contemplation. It’s how you never forget anything whatsoever. The average person uses the Method in order to accomplish what you do so naturally: remember everything.”

 

“What’s the point-”

 

“Cheeky berk.” Olivia griped. “It’s an _organization_ method. I did say that, didn’t I? So it can be used to find your way _back_ to a memory, but it can also be used in the reverse.” The tension in Sherlock’s shoulders faded as mind ran over what she was saying. He considered the possibilities, weighed his options. “You have memories floating about that you call to focus without even wanting to. You walk down the street, see a lamp post and suddenly think about car crashes in London- it’s not decent.”

 

“You think I could use this…Method of Loci to _store_ memories?” Sherlock asked, still trying to work on the specifics of what she was getting at.

 

“Think of it as a filter. The memories will _always_ be there. You will _never_ be able to forget them. However, instead of letting them take hold, you put a door between where they’re kept and where you’re accessing. So when you try to remember how to cook aubergines, you’re not assaulted by what it looks like when someone’s choking on cyanide.”

 

Sherlock’s fists tightened at his sides and Olivia watched with open interest as the transformation took place. Once the thought was planted in Sherlock’s brain, it took root on the first thing it could: an image of Kent dying. Sherlock’s face flushed red, his jaw clenched. She could see the skin under his eyes become more puffy and swollen. Tears coated his irises.

 

“You need to stop thinking about it.” She told him firmly.

 

“Fuck off.” He told her, though it was lacking any heat. He sniffed loudly, and looked away. His chest heaved as he fought to keep from crying openly.

 

“Open that box of cigarettes.” She told him, ignoring his comment and keeping her eyes locked on him.

 

“Fuck off.”

 

“Oh that’s right, cry about it. Keep crying about it. Get upset and have a panic, and then go back to mummy and daddy so they can hold your hand. It’s little wonder why your brother won’t have anything to do with you.” Sherlock clenched his fingers around the box in his hands, crushing it in his palm. “You’ll owe me another one of them, now.”

 

“Shut up. Just shut up!”

 

“Oh, now we’re screaming. Very mature, indeed.”

 

“I hate you!”

 

“And you’re welcome to.” Sherlock took a threatening step forwards. “Try it, boy. Try it.” He did. He threw a sloppy punch right at her and was slapped clear across the face for his efforts. He lost balance easily and slid across the ground on his knees. Skin broke, and he hissed at the feeling. “Go on then, open it up. Tell me. How many in the box. Come now, still can’t work it out?”

 

Sherlock threw the box on the ground and stood back up. He charged at her again, angry and vengeful, and just eager to make her _shut up!_ His strikes were useless, he never landed a blow, and each time she whacked him harder and harder – sending him back to the ground again and again.

 

“How many was that?” Olivia asked, laughing at him. “Can’t even beat a granny like me? Kent must have been real proud of you.” He was sent back to the dirt before he even managed to fully straighten his spine this time. “Go on, how many times have I soundly handed you your arse?”

 

“What does it matter?!” Sherlock yelled, snatching a handful of dirt and throwing it at her face. She sputtered and took a step back. He grabbed hold of her arms, and then hesitated – he hadn’t worked out what to do from here. It was all she needed to send him back on his bum with a sharp push.

 

Her blazer jacket tore slightly at a seam that had over extended and she scowled at it. “It matters,” Olivia muttered with distaste, looking at the jacket in frustration, “because you’ve proved my point entirely.” Sherlock, sore and bruised but not all that worse for wear, stared up at her mutinously.  “You get all worked up thinking about something, but if you’re distracted – if you’re given something else to focus on, you’re perfectly capable of forgetting all the bad. No?”

 

Sherlock breathed in deep gulps of air and exhaled sharply. He rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes to dislodge the last of his tears. Olivia walked back to her pack of cigarettes and lifted them up off the ground. They were all bent and damaged, but she didn’t care. She counted them and then nodded her head.

 

“There’s six left.” She informed Sherlock, showing him the box purposefully. He glared at the cigarettes with the same passion he reserved for her. She closed the box and put it back in her pocket. “How many are there?” She asked him.

 

“Six.” He spat back.

 

“Put them back in a box. Think about how many times I knocked you on your arse instead.”

 

“None.” He replied petulantly.

 

“Oh, is that right? As I recall it, it was at least thirteen.”

 

“It was not! You’re a dirty rotten liar!”

 

“Was I lying? I thought that’s what game you wanted to play now. How many cigarettes are in the box?”

 

“Six. There’s bloody six! And no matter what you do or say there will always have been six, and I will always remember that there were six and-”

 

“And look at that. Ten minutes later you’re not sobbing in a corner thinking about a dead man.” Sherlock froze. “How many cigarettes are in the box?”

 

“Six. There’s six.”

 

“Good, lad. Good.” Olivia nodded her head to him and started her way back to the house. “Come make me dinner.” She commanded. “Your mummy says you cook like an angel.”

 

It took a few minutes for Sherlock to follow, but when he did, his face was clear and his chin was up. He never forgot there were six cigarettes in the box, but that wasn’t the point of the lesson.

 

He never forgot that one memory could act like a door to another, closing off access or becoming an escape route if necessary.

 

And that, very much was.

 


	5. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Olivia continue their lessons together, and begin to talk about Sherrinford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Chanel for beta reading this. 
> 
> Alll mistakes are mine!

Olivia became a semi-permanent fixture in the Holmes household. Sherlock discovered that despite her wrinkled visage, she was only in her forties. “I aged early, you right bastard.” She told him when he laughed in her face. “You do what I’ve done in life and we’ll see how quickly you age.”

 

“And what have you done in life?” Sherlock asked snidely, attempting to portray an aura of complete nonchalance. At her amused snort – he didn’t quite manage it.

 

“More than you could possibly imagine, and far more than you have the clearance to know.”

 

“Clearance?” Sherlock laughed as he pronounced the word, but her expression didn’t change. She merely waited patiently for him to realize she hadn’t made a joke at his expense. “You’re serious.”

 

“Unlike your mother, I’m not retired. Puzzle that out, why don’t you.” Olivia told him.

 

“But… that would mean you work for my brother now.”

 

“Hardly. Your brother is a shadow in training, and a shadow from a different branch. I told you that I worked with your mother, that doesn’t mean that I worked in the same _division_ as your mother. I work primarily with foreigners.” The phone started ringing, and Margaret quickly went to answer it. She came in a few minutes later.

 

“It’s for you.” She told Olivia, who nodded and went to take the call. Sherlock watched her go.

 

She was _fascinating._

After their first abrupt and somewhat painful lesson, Sherlock had grudgingly agreed to listen to what Olivia had to say. It didn’t mean that he was willing to be polite to her, and she likely wouldn’t have it any other way. She replied just as tartly as he did. She seemed firmly under the assumption that he was just a troublemaker with extraordinary talent. He wasn’t too keen on proving her wrong just yet.

 

They were currently working on a logbook of sorts. While she was on the phone, he read through the words he’d already jotted down on his page. He was meant to categorize everything in his mind so that he could start organizing it all. The visual process was surprisingly easy. He could see the box of cigarettes she’d given him the night before perfectly fine. It was closed up shut. And if he opened it- then and only then did the rabbit hole of cyanide and panic start to blossom.

 

A door opened in two directions. If he thought of the number six, he could follow that train of thought to smoking, then to the box, and then opening the box there was Kent and the sound of Swan Lake echoing in his ears as he watched Kent die. But if he got lost in that memory, he only had to remember the smoke from the crash, smoke led to smoking, smoking to cigarettes, cigarettes to the number six- close the box, safe from harm.

 

He found it oddly easy once he realized the trick to it. He could slip in and out of the memory in seconds, running through the sequence over and over again. He found that the more he practiced it the less he faltered. So when Olivia asked him to try it with something else – he was eager to try.

 

She gave him a piece of paper and had him memorize it. Then she told him to forget it. He imagined the words seeping into the page he was looking at, turning it black with ink. He imagined folding the page up, crumpling it, tossing it in the rubbish bin, and walking away. The images were hardly complex, but he found they were remarkably effective.

 

He could read dozens of pages of nonsense and then collectively just shove it all in a rubbish bin. The bin was bottomless, endless, but when he went back to sort through it, there was a mess of useless data that was stuffed to the brim. It was better to not sort through any of it and just move on straight to morning.

 

Olivia suggested he not do that to the more important details, as it would be impossible to recall in a timely manner. He tended to agree. Hence…the lists…

 

English Literature, History, Maths; all school subjects were categorized and thrown into their own sections. He organized them all by order of importance, and soon found that certain people started to be made analogous to certain subjects. Individuals loitered around the boxes as obvious markers of remembrance.

 

As time passed, the markers even started to grow. They became hutches, shelves, storage containers, full on rooms filled with data.  Sherlock stacked the rooms by stairs, he designed it all so it made sense to _him_. The hallway of his school, the stairs of Kent’s home. The window in his bedroom always there in case he needed to make a desperate escape from the madness of it all.

 

Symbolism was key to the whole process. What something meant and what it was supposed to mean all mixed together until he could map out an entire life’s worth of information. It became so much easier to think.

 

At long last some of the pressure that felt like it had been crushing him into the earth had started to ease up. His panic attacks had started to disappear back into the void. He was starting to feel _good_ again.

 

Olivia finished her phone call and returned to sit across from him again. “What were we talking about?”

 

“Your time as a secret agent.” Sherlock replied immediately, not taking his eyes off his growing lists.

 

“Liar.” Olivia accused.

 

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked instead, navigating his faux pas as swiftly as possible.

 

“I’m on holiday.” Olivia lamented.

 

“Liar.” Sherlock countered, lifting his eyes to look at her. Her mouth twisted into a smile.

 

“Good.” She praised. “Now. Show me what you’ve learned.” Sherlock let it slide.

 

He’d work it out eventually.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_Willie,_

_Haven’t heard from you in so long, won’t you write me back? I look forward to seeing you again soon,_

_Love,_

_~Sherrinford_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

_Sherry,_

_Don’t be absurd,_

_Love,_

_Sherlock_

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“What do you think of Sherrinford?” Olivia asked Sherlock just after his ninth birthday.

 

“I don’t think of Sherrinford.” Sherlock replied. “He’s in a pill bottle in the basement.”

 

“Fitting.” Olivia commented wryly.

 

“I thought so.” Sherlock agreed. “Why didn’t you get me a present?” Sherlock asked, frowning at her. Mycroft hadn’t either, but he didn’t want to think about that.

 

“I gave you your sanity. Don’t be so quick to dismiss its worth.” Olivia informed him. Sherlock scowled.

 

“I’m not nearly mature enough to believe _that_ just yet.” He replied.

 

“Cheeky bugger.” Olivia told him with an exasperated shake of the head. “Your brother will be released from the asylum soon. His guardianship will be placed in the hands of your parents.”

 

“I know.” Sherlock said. “He’s not important.” Olivia arched a brow and waited for Sherlock to continue. He didn’t.

 

“Be careful what you hide in boxes, Sherlock. Don’t put something so far away that you’ll not see it until it’s too late.”

 

“Sherrinford is a psychopath.” Sherlock informed her dutifully. “He tried to kill me. Mycroft and I ran away because Mycroft was scared of him coming back, but I’m not afraid of Sherrinford.”

 

“And yet your eating habits are still appalling.”

 

“I thought you’d be pleased he was being released. After all, how else are you going to find out everything you need to know to recruit me?”

 

“I have nine years before then.” Olivia didn’t give him the discourtesy of lying. There was no point in pretending that Sherlock wasn’t a person of interest in the government’s eyes. Sherlock grinned at the confirmation, though it was smothered somewhat when she continued. “See to it that you manage to survive, hm?”

 

“I will.” Sherlock promised easily. “I have to.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“Because I want to see the look on my brother’s face when he realizes that he can’t protect me from myself.”

 

“You know, wishing to serve your country is something we look for in our candidates.”

 

“Look for patriotism in someone else.” Sherlock advised. 

 

“No love for Queen and Country?” Olivia asked him curiously.

 

“I’ve never met her.” Sherlock replied. “How should I know if I love her or not?” Olivia didn’t respond to that. Instead, she let her lips twist in amusement and motioned for him to continue. “I don’t want to give my loyalty to people I don’t know.”

 

“Yet you think I’ll still recruit you.”

 

“I know you.” Sherlock said. “I know my brother.”

 

“Your brother is being groomed for a position you’re not being considered for. He may be involved in the decision-making process, but he’s not going to be your superior in a direct sense. You’ll need more than familial loyalty to be seriously considered. Besides, your feelings towards your brother change quicker than your pants.” He scowled at the euphemism. “Why should I recruit you?”

 

“Because you like people you can use at will, and I’m willing?”

 

“I certainly hope you have a better answer nine years from now. That one was appalling.” Sherlock glared at her.

 

“How many others are there?” He asked, honestly interested.

 

“Others?”

 

“Kids like me, Mycroft. How many others are there that you keep track of, grooming them to be who you want?”

 

“That, my favorite idiot, is not your concern, is it?”

 

“For now.” He agreed. Her eyes narrowed somewhat as she looked him over. It was a conversation that they would be having in the future. He was sure of it.

 

As their discussion started to draw to an end, Sherlock thought about his preparations for Sherrinford’s arrival. He’d be coming home in a matter of weeks, and the entire house needed to be redone to their mother’s specifications. She wanted everything to be as simple and as easy as possible. She didn’t want anything that could be considered a stressor to arise, and she was ever cognizant of Sherlock’s opinion.

 

Margaret pulled Sherlock aside almost every chance she had to make sure he was all right with Sherrinford’s return. She showed him every psychiatric report she could get her hands on as proof that he was doing well. He nodded his head, patted her arm, and made it perfectly clear that he was fine with everything that was going to happen.

 

He’d read the reports too. He’d seen how the doctor’s praised Sherrinford’s guilt for the actions he’d taken. He’d seen how they documented the difficult period as Sherrinford learned to control his impulses and dark thoughts. He’d read the notes on group therapy. He’d been privy to it all.

 

It was rubbish. All of it.

 

Olivia had read the documents as well, and when she read them she looked so thoroughly amused by them that he _knew_ it was all wrong. She refused to tell him of her opinions on the topic. He understood full well that Sherrinford was a test just like everything else was in her eyes. She wanted to see how he reacted, and likely she wanted to see how Sherrinford reacted.

 

He accused her, once, of appreciating savagery. She hadn’t denied it. Instead, she’d given a brief explanation. “There are horrors in the world that can only be met by savagery. Why shouldn’t I appreciate it when it’s done right?” He hadn’t had anything to say to that, and so he’d said nothing at all.

 

Instead, he’d rolled the idea around in his head. At night he stared across his room to his brother’s bed. It hadn’t been touched since the night they’d run away. Even after all of this time. Even Red Beard hadn’t jumped up on it. Sometimes he had the urge to destroy it, tear it apart with his bare hands and make sure that it could never be used again. But that fantasy was quickly ruined by the small idea that Mycroft might come home one day.

 

He could imagine his brother. He could imagine what he looked like now. Sixteen years old. He probably dressed just like Kent, in faded suits with his hair combed over. He would be taller, broader. He’d still look like Sherrinford. It was one of life’s many jokes that Sherlock didn’t find to be very funny. 

 

He wondered if his brother had found his own savagery yet. If he’d located that piece inside of himself that needed to come out to ensure acts of horrors were carried out precisely as he dictated. It was ironic. Sherrinford had never been congratulated for being a beast, but people like Olivia and Mycroft made a career out of death and despair.

 

He wondered which one was for the greater good. He wondered which one was really standing on a moral high ground.

 

In the morning, Sherlock went to school but only partly paid attention to his classes. His thoughts were locked firmly on Olivia, Mycroft, and Sherrinford. Olivia had her own agenda, that much was obvious, and she didn’t work for Mycroft, which was surprising. Sherrinford would be released, and his presence was a catalyst towards several different outcomes. Olivia had no stakes in how _he_ handled the situation. It was more than that. So what was Mycroft after? What did he want out of this?

 

The answer struck him halfway through maths, and he winced as he spoke it out loud. “He doesn’t know.”

 

“What was that, Mr. Holmes?” The teacher asked, frowning at him.

 

“Apologies Mr. Addams. My mind was elsewhere.”

 

“Well, focus next time.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

However, Sherlock didn’t focus on class for the rest of the day. In fact, he kept swirling the thought round and round. It tasted right on his tongue. It tasted like it was perfect. Mycroft wouldn’t allow Sherrinford to go free, especially not if he was going to be released back to their family home. Mycroft never respected his wishes, and he wouldn’t listen to them now. He would sit there and think that he was in the right for all the decisions he’d made. He would ignore Sherlock if he asked him to leave Sherrinford alone.

 

 _He_ would.

 

Olivia wouldn’t.

 

He nearly ran the entire way home. His bag clattered against his back and he couldn’t care less. The moment his hand touched the front door, he shoved it open. Red Beard had been sleeping just behind it and the dog yelped and back peddled uselessly on the linoleum in an effort to get away. Sherlock tripped, stumbling over the Irish Setter. He caught himself on the wall, and glanced down at his dog who gave him a severely put upon expression.

 

“Sorry.” He said quickly, before tossing his bag in the closet and searching the house for Olivia. He found her in the kitchen on the phone. She glanced at him and held up a hand. He came to a stop, adrenaline urging him to move forwards, but brain reining him back. He shifted his weight from one foot to another. She made a shooing motion with her hand and he glared at her.

 

“One moment.” She said to the receiver, before holding it against her chest. “Get out.”

 

“I need to ask you a question.”

 

“Not now.”

 

“It’s important.”

 

“To you. Now leave.” He glared at her and planted his feet. He wasn’t going to be ordered out of his own kitchen. She scowled at his resolve and carefully set the phone down beside its base. Then she marched over to him and caught him by the scruff of the neck. Red Beard barked, baring teeth immediately. She pulled open the front door and tossed Sherlock out of it, Red Beard hurrying after his master without a second thought. She’d shut and locked the door before he had a chance to turn around, and Sherlock clenched his fists when he realized that his key had been removed from his pocket at some point.

 

Not willing to be locked out of his own home, he moved around the house until he was standing just under his bedroom window. Red Beard groaned unhappily as he reached towards the house, pulling himself up on the small handholds and accents that he’d used years before in order to escape. When he reached his window, he pushed and shoved at the sash. It was locked.

 

Clenching his teeth, he hit it harder. One foot slipped, and Red Beard barked loudly as he scrambled to catch himself. The skin on his hands and elbows was torn back. He hissed as dirt pressed into the new injuries, and hit the window once more. It still refused to open.

 

Sherlock banged it one more time, and then blinked when he realized Olivia was on the other side. She walked through the room and flicked open the latch. The window pulled open and she reached out, caught him by the shirt, and pulled him through.

 

“You’re an idiot.” She told him briskly. “Who climbs through a window to get into a house?”  

 

“Spies.” Sherlock muttered, earning a sharp whack on the back of the head. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as the cuts he’d acquired on the climb, and he scowled as he looked at his palms.

 

“Go clean yourself up.” She commanded, before walking from the room. He listened to her move downstairs and open the door to let Red Beard back in. He moved listlessly to the bathroom and did as he was told. His fingers ached, and he grimaced as he pushed soap across them. It was stupid to have jumped in so rashly. He hadn’t even thought about it. He just did it.

 

Trudging back downstairs, he slumped onto the sofa and crossed his arms over his chest. Red Beard hopped up beside him, and Olivia scoffed at them both. She put the kettle on, and leaned against the doorway to the living room, watching him sulk.

 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist; tell me what’s on your mind.”

 

“Why’d you lock me out?”

 

“You don’t need to listen in on my phone conversations. You’re bright enough to take something from them.” She informed him easily. “What did you want to say that was _so_ terribly important?”

 

“Mycroft doesn’t know that Sherrinford’s being released, does he?” He asked her, focusing intently on her face and posture. To her credit, she didn’t even try to hide it.

 

“He hasn’t been informed about Sherrinford in a very long time.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because he never picked up the slack after Kent’s death.” Olivia replied. “Kent had several plans in place for Sherrinford. He was doing it on his own initiative. No one except for his personal staff was involved. When your brother started to take control of his work, Sherrinford was not on the agenda for his management.”

 

“He never even heard what I said that day, did he?” Sherlock asked bitterly.

 

“No. No your immature tirade only was passed along to Mycroft’s superiors. When I was asked to come here and evaluate you, I received the transcript of your conversation. Very inspiring.” She was being sarcastic.

 

“Are you ever going to tell him that Sherrinford is coming home?” Sherlock asked her.

 

“No. He chose to leave his family life behind. That’s a difficult enough decision without it being thrown in his face every year. If he looks into it, he’ll know, but I have no need to go out of my way to tell him.”

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of that. Encouraging Mycroft to back off and allow Sherrinford leeway had been his attempt to see what his brother thought of him. If Mycroft  allowed it to happen, then he’d respected his wishes and was confident in his ability to handle his life on his own. If he didn’t, then Mycroft still wanted to be there, even if he was a hypocrite.

 

With Mycroft entirely removed from the situation, Sherlock was surprised to find that he wasn’t as comfortable with the idea of Sherrinford coming home as he was before. His brother didn’t want to talk to him, and wouldn’t get in touch with him. There was no way Sherlock could ask for his advice, if he did call, he’d prove he was incapable. Mycroft would take the decision away completely. It was a catch-22 that Sherlock didn’t enjoy in the least. 

 

No matter what happened, he was going to be unhappy. There was nothing for it. Olivia stepped towards him, moving slowly and placidly. She sat across from him in her standard chair, and leaned towards him slightly. “Tell me now if you want this to stop.” She informed him, keeping her voice carefully modulated. She was looking at him with a piercing expression, intent on his face.

 

“How do you deal with psychopaths?” He asked her instead, meeting her gaze carefully. “You must do it all the time.”

 

“Yes.” She agreed. “Psychopaths make up a fair few of our numbers. Those without remorse can easily be motivated into doing things that people with consciences disapprove of. It makes them talented liars, killers, motivators. They manipulate well, and they slip into society well. They’re difficult to catch, and destroy.”

 

“How do you know you’re safe? That they won’t turn on you too?”

 

Olivia shook her head. “That’s the wrong question, Sherlock.” He paused, and considered it. She was right. People without a conscience were bound to betray you as soon as follow you. It was just a matter of time, and damage control.

 

“What do you do when they betray you?”

 

“You plan for it. You prepare for it. You make sure you always hold the cards.”

 

“What cards do I have?” Sherlock asked her.

 

“You know the answer to that as well. What does Sherrinford want most of all?” Sherlock shrugged. He never put much stock into what Sherrinford wanted. He wasn’t planning on doing it now. “Think. If you were in his position, what would you want?”

 

“Revenge?” He hazarded. Then he nodded. “Revenge. I’d want revenge.”

 

“Against whom?”

 

“Those who put me there.”

 

“Who is that?” The answer was obvious. Sherlock could see it as clearly as he could feel Red Beard against his side. Sherrinford blamed one person for his incarceration. The security personnel at the hospital wouldn’t tell him where that person was, their parents certainly wouldn’t tell Sherrinford anything about where he was, which meant the only way Sherrinford would find him was if Sherlock told him.

 

Sherlock had power over Sherrinford. It wasn’t much, but it was something. If he played his cards right, it might even be enough to keep him from getting tortured while Sherrinford was there. Or, it could end in disaster. Either option was plausible. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he liked that.

 

“Don’t tell Mycroft.” He requested, licking his lips. Red Beard groaned unhappily.

 

“Of course not.” Olivia promised. “This is your gambit. Play it well.” She cautioned.

 

Then, the front door opened, and his parents came home.

 

It was decided: Mycroft never needed to know.

 


	6. The East Wind and the Butterfly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherrinford comes home and Mycroft is entirely unaware of his presence in Sherlock's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Chanel for beta-reading!

Sherrinford’s homecoming was carefully planned. Olivia informed Sherlock the night before his oldest brother was due to arrive that she would have no part in Sherrinford’s presence here. In short: she was leaving.

 

“You can’t just leave me.” He told her, watching as she stood to leave. She never brought anything with her that could be linked back to her. She could walk out the door and no one would know she’d ever been there.

 

“I’m not leaving you, I’m leaving this household. It is imperative that Sherrinford not know who I am, at least for the time being. “Our lessons will continue, but at a distance.”

 

“You don’t want to be connected to him in any way…why?”

 

“In case we need to use him one day.”

 

“Or _lose_ him.” Sherlock corrected darkly.

 

“In either case.” Olivia gave him a brisk nod. “You will be monitored. You’ll not be in any more danger than you put yourself into. Your parents have arranged an after school meeting location for us that you will attend until you tell me to bugger off and mean it wholeheartedly.”

 

“And there I can tell you all of my deepest darkest secrets and hope that if anything goes wrong you’ll spirit me away to safety?” He asked her, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“You wanted to have this trial, and now you have it. Do you want me to take it away?”

 

“No.”

 

“Good. Then behave.” She said her goodbyes, and Sherlock watched her go. A part of him wondered if he really would be safe at home. There was no telling what Sherrinford was capable of. Even if he managed to convince Sherrinford that he had information that he could use to his advantage, there was no guarantee that Sherrinford wouldn’t simply use that as an excuse to hurt him further.

 

Sherrinford was more than capable of killing him before Olivia and her secret police could so much as lift a finger in protest. It was laughable to think that they were watching and waiting for any kind of mistake.

 

The tension in their home was so thick Sherlock could almost taste it. It filled the air with a choking miasma of dark fear and uncertainty. His parents continued to glance at him with worried expressions and uncertain gestures. He found that he couldn’t even concentrate on the chemistry work he was doing.

 

He set it aside and went up to bed early. Red Beard hurried after him, slipping past his legs and jumping on the bed with an exited leap. Sherlock didn’t bother changing into his sleep clothes. Instead, he climbed onto the bed, leaned his back against the wall, and stared across the room at Mycroft’s abandoned half.

 

He pulled his knees up and rested his arms on them. He knew he should be tired and should get some rest. He knew that he should, but he couldn’t manage to close his eyes. His mind kept spinning round and round. He sank deep into his mind palace and found the pill bottle he’d stored Sherrinford in, then he opened the bottle and let the memories flow to the forefront of his mind.

 

His stomach ached with phantom pain as he felt himself slide into the sensation of starving agony. His throat burned with bile that didn’t exist. His body felt chilled as a nonexistent cold wind slipped over his flesh. He could see Mycroft, much younger and less certain, terrified of Sherrinford.

 

The empty bed across from him slowly filled with a body he knew well. Mycroft appeared like a living specter in their room. Sherlock’s fingers tightened.

 

“He shouldn’t come back yet.” Mycroft’s memory told him. It was false. This wasn’t how that conversation went. Not really. “I’m sorry, William. But not just yet.”

 

“When then? When you’re not scared of him?” Sherlock asked the image, swallowing bile that wasn’t there and shivering against the chill in his mind.

 

“Yes. Yes, William, when I’m not scared of Sherry anymore.”

 

“You’ll always be afraid of him.” Sherlock accused. Mycroft looked pained at the idea. “You’ll always be afraid.” He repeated. The image changed and morphed into what Mycroft looked like on that last day they saw each other.

 

“Goodbye, William.” He was turning away. Walking out the door and showing him his back.

 

“Fuck you.” Sherlock hissed, tears pressing to his eyes. He squeezed them shut and covered his ears with his palms. “Fuck you.”

 

And whispering back in the darkness were two simple, yet haunting, words that called out to him.

 

_Brother mine._

 

_Brother mine._

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

In the morning, Sherlock pushed everything back into its pill bottle. He slammed the lid shut, and he tightly closed the door to the basement. He stepped out into the real world, exhausted, but fully prepared for what was about to happen. He knew Sherrinford. He knew the risks. He knew what he was up against.

 

He showered, brushed his teeth, got dressed in a fresh set of clothes, made breakfast for his parents. He put the kettle on, took out a book to read while they finished their meal. None of them spoke. There was little point in asking if they slept well. From the dark circles under their eyes, they had slept as he had the night before.

 

The clock struck seven, and they quietly gathered their things for the trip to the hospital. Sherlock glanced towards Red Beard for a long while, weighing his options. The dog would be a comfort to him, but potentially lost him favor to Sherrinford if he didn’t feel like being so close to the Irish Setter.

 

“Stay.” Sherlock told his faithful companion, scratching him behind the ears before following his parents out.

 

They climbed into the small sedan and his mother pulled out of the driveway. His father looked back at him, nervously, the whole while. Sherlock resisted the urge to insist that he was fine. There was no point.

 

Sherlock forced his hands to lie on his lap, denying himself the warm comfort of hugging them across his chest. He could feel his fingers yearning to do something, to tap against his legs, to curl into fists, to move, to do anything except lie still. He wouldn’t let them. He took a deep breath in, calming his nerves and steadying himself. Then he let out a long breath of air in return.

 

Trees, hills, and valleys passed them by. His mother, for once, was wholly focused on the road. She didn’t make any sudden turns and his father kept his hands off the wheel. Time seemed to drag on. Each land formation that they passed was just one more on a long list of formations yet to come.

 

Sherlock watched the sun rise up over the horizon, growing higher and higher with each passing moment. He could see the wildlife coming to life. More birds flocked to the sky, more bugs slapped against the windshield.

 

By the time they reached the hospital, Sherlock felt as though his blood was going to burst through his skin. His muscles were tense. His chest was compressed. He closed his eyes and drew in one final breath of free air before he opened the car door and stepped out.

 

His parents looked at him like he was about to shatter into one million small, insignificant, pieces. They were afraid. He didn’t like seeing them that way. “It’s a good thing he’s coming home.” Sherlock told them. “It’s where he belongs.”

 

It felt vile to say, and out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could have sworn he saw Mycroft’s back – walking away. He shook his head to clear the image, then stubbornly shoved his hands into his pockets. “Ready?” He asked them.

 

“Yes. Of course.” His mother agreed nervously. She led the way. His father stayed back just long enough to put an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

 

“Are you sure about this, son?” He asked him quietly. “There’s still time-”

 

“Don’t you want Sherry to come home?” Sherlock asked him, refusing to meet his eyes.

 

“No.” His father replied. Sherlock looked up, startled. “Not if it means you’re afraid.”

 

“I’m not afraid of anything.” Sherlock told him. It was a lie, and a bad one at that. His father knew better than anyone else the things that Sherlock was afraid of.

 

“Perhaps you should be.” His father warned. They stepped inside the hospital. A nurse was discussing paperwork with Margaret, and Sherlock wet his lips as he glanced around.

 

The last time he was here he hadn’t given it much thought. Now, he took the time to look at the walls. They were painted bright, vibrant colors, and were decorated with various scenery paintings. The chairs were Victorian in style, and there was a small magazine rack sitting beside them. Several people sat in the waiting room looking nervous and uncomfortable. They were giving each other suspicious glances, as though their reputations would be ruined just by being caught sitting in a place like this.

 

Self-absorbed. Sherlock reasoned. They were all self-absorbed.

 

A door opened down the hall, and Sherlock turned his attention to the group of men coming their way. The first was the doctor in charge of Sherrinford’s care. The next two were his aides. They were all invited to join the man in his office for their final briefing.

 

Sherlock sat between his parents as Dr. Reynolds handed them paperwork, folders, and photographs that were meant to ease the transition from Sherrinford’s time in hospital to his time at home. He droned on and on about how successful the treatment had been and the great strides that Sherrinford had gone through.

 

He explained that there were going to be some adjustment difficulties, and how best to handle them should they arise. Medicinal intake, diet, and schedules were the most important aspects that should be followed strictly. He must not stop taking his medicine; he must be fully aware of his food and not eat too much caffeinated, sugared, or fatty meals; he must keep to a strict schedule. This will decrease his stress and give him a management system that he should follow.

 

“The important thing is to let him know that you love him, and that you’re willing to work with him.” Sherlock almost laughed at that. He could feel the tension from his parents. There was no doubt that they loved their son in the way that parents always do. But _liking_ him was a bit harder. They’d had years to get used to the fact that Sherrinford was psychotic and a threat to society. Embracing him in their homes was something they hadn’t quite come to terms with.

 

“Of course, doctor.” Margaret confirmed, though her hand reached out to hold onto Sherlock’s tightly.

 

“Very well, I see that everything is in order. I’ll have Sherrinford brought around.” Dr. Reynolds stood up and left the room, leaving their small family together one last time before everything would change.

 

“Any last words?” Sherlock asked morbidly, earning a nervous laugh from both his parents.

 

“Don’t be silly.” His mother chided lightly.

 

“Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood.” He muttered, giving his mother’s hand a squeeze.

 

There were birds chirping innocently outside. They tweeted back and forth to each other, most likely discussing mundane things such as weather patterns and worm locations. Occasionally a larger bird would pipe up, causing the smaller ones to break into an uproar of discontent.

 

The view outside the good doctor’s window could almost be considered idyllic if not for the discomfort of where they were sitting. Sherlock wondered if it helped encourage people to send their loved ones away, knowing that at least the scenery was nice. He didn’t think it would help much if he’d been a patient here. A prison is still a prison, no matter how beautifully it’s decorated.

 

The door opened and Sherlock’s parents rose to their feet, turning to see their oldest son. Sherlock remained in his chair, but twisted about to look at his brother. The resemblance was as uncanny as ever. Sherrinford was Mycroft’s evil twin, seven years too old.

 

He was smiling openly as he stepped closer to them. “Mummy, daddy.” He greeted politely, hesitating just before he made his final approach. Margaret moved first. She stepped around her chair and hugged her son tight.

 

“It’s so good to see you.” She told him, smiling. She cupped his cheek, memorizing his face and features.

 

“And you.” He replied. He glanced towards Arthur who followed Margaret’s move. They embraced and parted relatively quickly.

 

“Hello, Willie.” Sherrinford said to Sherlock. “You’ve gotten tall.”

 

“Sherry.” Sherlock replied. He slid off of his chair and stood before his brother. It was true. He had grown. He was at least eight inches taller than he’d been when he was six. It was almost startling to realize how much height could impact confidence. He wondered if he’d eventually be tall enough to look Sherrinford in the eye.

 

He’d like that.

 

 Sherlock glanced between his parents, the doctor, and the orderlies who accompanied Sherrinford into the room. No one seemed quite certain what they were meant to do at the moment. Now that they’d all gotten together and agreed that Sherrinford was supposed to go back home, they were all waiting for the final confirmation that their decision was set in stone. Sherrinford was smiling politely, no leering grin or hidden malice behind a shark like twist of the lips.

 

“What now?” He asked.

 

“Now you’ll follow Mr. Simmons down to reception where you’ll collect your belongings and return home with your family.” Dr. Reynolds stated, clearing his throat and nodding to them. “I wish you the best of luck.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at Sherrinford’s words. There was nothing overtly wrong with them. In fact, in so far as he could tell, there was nothing but the upmost sincerity in his brother’s voice. It still struck him as wrong. While his parents relaxed somewhat, he couldn’t help but feel more concerned than before.

 

Sherrinford met his gaze and his smile grew. Everything was going to be different from this moment on, and he knew it.

 

From the moment the car door shut behind him and Margaret turned the engine over; things were different. Sherlock’s breath didn’t seem to be filling his lungs properly, each inhale was too shallow, too faint. He could feel the physical changes in his body, the way his fingers were locked shut, the way his guts cramped with nauseous anxiety. Arthur kept glancing at Sherlock in the mirror, but it didn’t change anything.

 

This was a mistake, Sherlock realized, feeling his brother’s body heat every time a bump or a turn made the odd limb slide closer to him. Sherlock could feel the basement door starting to thrust open in his mind, the pill bottle top twisting - preparing to spill its secrets and blind him from movement. He swallowed tightly, but his mouth had gone dry.

 

His tongue felt shriveled. It tasted like dirt, like he’d attempted to eat a spoon full of cinnamon and salted crackers in one go. His head ached with a growing migraine, and the sunlight pierced his eyes. Sherlock felt physically ill, and he was not sure how he was meant to overcome that.

 

“Have you eaten breakfast already? I’m starved.” Sherrinford’s voice raked, and Sherlock’s nails scratched into his leg.

 

“We ate at home.” His mouth moved without conscious thought, spitting out words more bravely than the rest of him.

 

“Did you? Are there any leftovers?”

 

“No.” Sherlock wasn’t opposed to making leftovers, though he rarely did so. He cooked enough for just the three of them, and didn’t hold much stock in reheating meals. He’d gotten better about his eating habits, but they weren’t nearly as manageable as they could have been.

 

“Pity. Could we stop on the way back?” This, he directed to their parents. After a brief deliberation, they agreed. Sherrinford settled deeper into his seat, stretching his leg out slightly and nudging Sherlock’s ankle with his foot. Sherlock pulled away, and so did he. “Sorry about that. A bit cramped.”

 

“It’s fine.” Sherlock replied. His head was buzzing with how incredibly not fine this whole situation was. There was no turning back, though, and he wasn’t going to do anything to ruin this. Not yet. He had to prove this to himself as much as to all the people watching. He had to do this. “So how were things in the hospital?” Sherlock asked, forcing his voice to stay neutral, modulated. He glanced at his brother out of the corner of his eye.

 

Sherrinford was watching him. His features were focused, intent. He looked like Mycroft did when he was solving an intense puzzle. It was disconcerting. He licked his lips in a futile attempt to moisten them. They stayed firmly dry.

 

“Wonderful. I think it really helped.” Sherrinford told him. “And to be honest, I don’t think I even realized that I needed the help to begin with. I…hurt you, Will, badly. I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s lips tugged downwards. There was a plethora of things he wanted to say. He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t forgiven. He wanted to tell him that he didn’t believe him. He wanted to tell him that he was wrong and that his change was a ridiculous farce. He wanted to admit that this had been a mistake, and that Sherrinford never should have been allowed back out. He wanted to tell his parents to turn the car around.

 

He didn’t say any of that. Instead, he managed four words. “My name is Sherlock.” Sherrinford arched a brow in response.

 

“Apologies, you’ll always be William to me.”

 

“Learn to live with disappointment.” Sherlock replied shortly, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. Anger filtered across Sherrinford’s face. His fingers twitched in his lap. Sherlock’s breath stilled for just one moment. This was it. Not ten minutes out of the hospital gates, Sherrinford was going to lose his temper. It was a failure of an experiment in all respects.

 

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I will…work on it.” Sherrinford said, bowing his head slightly. “I should have been more respectful of your wishes. I apologize.”

 

He pressed himself further against the car door, and Sherlock gaped at him in open amazement. _Wrong_. _Sham_. _Lies_. The observations cut into Sherlock’s brain, even as the subtle manipulation was felt rippling across his skin. Sherrinford had his own agenda, it seemed. He wanted something more than this, and he needed to get back home in order to let it take place.

 

 _Mycroft_. Sherlock’s mind whispered. Some of the tension faded from his body. Sherrinford really did want Mycroft’s head on a platter, and only by getting on their good sides would he receive the ability to get in touch with the errant Holmes child. Mycroft was the key to controlling Sherrinford, this was the final proof that Sherlock needed.

 

He was safe. His gambit had paid off. Sherrinford wouldn’t touch him as long as Sherlock ensured that Mycroft would be the end goal Sherrinford achieved through good behavior. Sherrinford proved he was willing to behave for now, which meant there was room to negotiate.

 

Sherlock needed to speak to his brother alone, and he had no illusions that _that_ conversation would cause as much stress as their first meeting. But until that point, Sherlock had time. He could relax. The game was still in its opening moves, and Sherlock didn’t need to be afraid. The fear would come later, but for now, he could relax.

 

He let his body slouch against the car door. His muscles loosened, his breath returned much easier, and his relief grew.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Thousands of miles away, Mycroft Holmes couldn’t be less aware of his brothers’ meeting if he tried. He was sitting as an attaché on a council meeting in Stockholm. Kate was at his side, carefully taking notes and passing along crucial messages the outside world felt that he needed to be aware of while he was in session. The decisions made in this room would never reach the public.  None of them existed on paper. In fact, they were all ghosts.

 

Mycroft had once looked into his own past, curious at what he would find. He’d been erased, reshaped, made incomplete and insignificant. While his name remained the same, his family history had vanished. Margaret and Arthur Holmes only had two children, Sherrinford and William. Sherlock was the one who had blown the whistle on Sherrinford’s insanity, any record of Mycroft’s involvement had been stripped away.

 

Mycroft had been given a packet he’d been instructed to memorize. He’d been assigned new parents, a new education, a new life. Clarice and Rutherford Holmes, now deceased, had been hard working middle class individuals who had loved him dearly. They’d died in a car crash when he was fourteen. He was raised by Thomas Kent until his death. He had a penchant for politics after that, and attended college with that in mind. According to his ledger, he had just begun his tenure at Cambridge and would be receiving a degree in Political Science.

 

“Will they send me the diploma when I graduate?” He asked Kate wryly one evening while she was organizing his schedule.

 

“It will accompany your graduation photos, yes.” She affirmed. He laughed at that. He wondered if they’d have him walk through Cambridge, taking photos in a cap and gown just to sell the image. His life had been erased, rebuilt, remade.

 

Fascinating.

 

His mentors, faceless and nameless people just like him, put him in touch with the rest of the ghosts of the world. They sat down for meetings, discussed how to influence current events, and quietly watched how proceedings commenced. Their group, and its mission, was called Target Butterfly, referencing the philosophical conundrum of Ray Bradbury. If you stepped on a butterfly in Indonesia, it could change the political debate in America. The world was chaos, and they were its controllers. Their job was to find the butterflies, and make use of them in any way possible.

 

Mycroft didn’t know the names or histories of anyone in this room. If he searched for them, he was certain he would find the same blank story that made up his life. They were all carefully fabricated lies that couldn’t be proven wrong. Even William wouldn’t be able to prove that Mycroft was his brother. The same went for every person here.

 

It wasn’t enough.

 

While the Controllers discussed their Butterflies, naming targets that needed to be eliminated in order to ensure the proper world order, Mycroft was taking his own notes. His hand never reached for his pen or paper. His attention never wavered from his initial task, but in the back of his mind he pushed each second of this meeting into his subconscious.

 

The attaché from Sweden was an older man with a curling beard and a scar across his left cheek.

 

There were two representatives from Germany. One was roughly the same age as Mycroft, and this was his first meeting. He was nervous and uncertain. He hadn’t gained ground yet, and was shadowing a mentor for assistance. The mentor was older and far more disliked than other members.

 

He was a relic from the Second World War, an instigator who was cold and bloody. He’d seen how the game was played. His own political agendas had gained him some ground, but lost him far more. Mycroft could respect his tenacity, if not his policies.

 

In this meeting hall, no one individual could take control of anything. These decisions needed to be made together. They didn’t represent their countries; they represented an ideal. There were goals in mind, and they needed to ensure that those goals were met. More than anything else was the understanding that they were all expendable. No one would notice if they lived or died, therefore they all needed to tread carefully.

 

Target Butterfly wasn’t meant to be a game or a challenge. It was meant to be a platform for moving forwards. Here, they planned for the future and conquered the masses.

 

It wasn’t enough.

 

Each one of these people was expendable, but they were all powerful in their own right. They controlled their countries, invisibly pulling the strings. They were dangerous. They were threatening. Mycroft wasn’t a threat yet. They looked at him like he was fresh meat, ready to be made and bartered with. He could potentially do the jobs that needed doing in order to maintain balance, but he hadn’t proved himself yet.

 

Mycroft needed to make them afraid, and to do that he needed power.  He needed to know something about them. He needed to have all the information he could at his fingertips.

 

The representative from France was a woman, frigid and conservative. She spoke of death and destruction like it was nothing to her. It was nothing to her. No one in this room had any morals to speak of, and it was surprisingly refreshing of them all. 

 

Their agendas were neat, tidy, and compressed. They were the sources of endless amounts of information. Each person was a thrilling source of knowledge. The thrill was delicious. Mycroft knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he could learn from each of them.

 

He would learn as much as he could, and then he would betray them all. He had to, because one day they would betray him. The moment it became convenient. That was the way of the world, and to be a Controller, you had to understand: everyone was a Butterfly in the end.

 

The meeting adjourned with missions put out to each Controller. Mycroft collected his things, Kate closed her notebook, and they all left through separate exits. None of them could ever be seen together under any circumstances.

 

Kate led their departure, eventually holding open a car door for him to slip inside. Mycroft nodded a curt show of gratitude towards her and moved to the opposite side of the vehicle for her to enter unimpeded. She closed the door behind her and knocked on the safety glass that separated them and their driver. They moved sedately down the road and back to their hotel with ease.

 

“What do you think of the Controllers?” Mycroft asked Kate carefully. He had grown to depend on her insight over the past year. She was an invaluable assistant with a plethora of data and information at her fingertips. He’d been skeptical of her value when they’d first met, but she’d proven her resilience several times over.

 

Aside from his mentors and the household staff she was the only person that he spoke to on a daily basis. Some small part of his mind informed him that he only trusted her because she was the only one he was allowed to trust, another part warned him about forming attachments. In either case, she was a confidante that he used to help organize his thoughts and plan his objectives. She’d been at this longer than he had, and she was _very_ useful to him.

 

“They’re a complex group of individuals who don’t exist on paper.” She replied with a shrug.

 

“Yes, but what do you _think_ of them?”

 

“I think that they’re entirely untrustworthy as far as any type of meaningful relationship is concerned. Their politics are clear, and their intentions are absolute. So long as you are careful not to double cross them they could become powerful allies. They could also be the harbinger of your death, should they find you to be not worth their time.”

 

“Agreed.” Mycroft nodded his head. He tapped his fingers against his lips and ran through the list of observations he’d collected during the meeting. “What are the stories they’ve prepared for us?”

 

“As far as their personal histories?” She asked carefully.

 

“Yes.”

 

“If they discover you’re looking into them, they’ll kill you.”

 

“Then I shall make myself a man that they do not want to kill. Untouchable.”

 

“It would be a unique feat if you managed it.” Kate rarely, if ever, commented on how likely it was he would succeed in any mission. In fact, if she ever did have an opinion, it was perpetually slanted and unhappy. She was an eternal pessimist as far as his work was concerned. 

 

“The man that they want killed, Howard Norton, what else do we have on him?” Kate flipped through her notes.

 

“Howard Norton, fifty-seven, solicitor. He’s defending Sir Walter Lawrence for illegal weapons smuggling. He has a wife and three children. His death would secure a mistrial, and Lawrence will eventually be let free to continue his illicit deeds. By being allowed to continue, new weapons trades will be set up. These trades will allow us to circumvent and place trackers on the more lucrative terrorist cells.”

 

“Do we have any contacts in the news?”

 

“Yes, several.”

 

“Feed a hero story. Emphasize Lawrence’s success as a peer as well as all charitable work. Push it for two weeks, and counter each article with a sidepiece that shows how Norton is failing Lawrence. I want pressure on Lawrence day in and day out. Push the wife and children as much as possible, and lay out to dry any laundry that has been hidden away.”

 

“Yes, sir.” She replied, making a note of his decision.

 

“And Kate?” Mycroft asked slowly.

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“Get me the files on all Controllers in Target Butterfly. I have work to do.” She hesitated before replying. It was just long enough for him to cut her a look, daring her to refuse.

 

“Yes, sir. As soon as I can.” She stated coolly. He nodded.

 

“Thank you, Kate.”

 

“You’re welcome, Mycroft.” She replied. The rest of the drive proceeded in silence, and Mycroft smiled.

 

It wouldn’t happen overnight, but someday soon he was going to change how things were done. He was going to take charge of Target Butterfly, and he was going to make the world spin exactly the way he wanted it to. It would take time, but patience was something that he had in full. And right now, he had all the time in the world.

 

Things were looking up, and somewhere in the world another Butterfly was being stepped on.

 

As it should be.


	7. Quid Pro Quo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest apologies for the wait. I hope that updates are much more forthcoming. Thank you for your patience!

Sherrinford behaved himself admirably. He was polite, understanding, and mild mannered. He offered to help out whenever he could, and he played at being meek and submissive. He played very well. He told his parents whenever he felt like he was getting overwhelmed and needed a moment to himself. He was open and willing to taking the medication he’d been prescribed, and he made no fuss about any of the changes that he needed to adhere to.

Under no circumstances were Sherlock and Sherrinford allowed to be home alone together. It was forbidden. Someone would always be there to make sure that nothing uncouth happened between them. Sherlock wished he could say that it was overbearing, but the truth was: he liked the protection. He was willing to push buttons he wouldn’t otherwise push as long as their parents were home. He wanted to see what Sherrinford would say or do, and having the knowledge that they were always monitored helped.

“What do you think of him?” Olivia asked him curiously, smoothing one hand over her skirt as she crossed her legs neatly in front of her. She looked far too upper-class to be sitting in a small town school desk like the one she’d appropriated. It looked like something out of a surrealist painting, entirely out of place and more than slightly wrong.

“He’s a liar,” Sherlock replied. He tugged at his collar and tried to make it sit right. He was growing too fast for his clothes, and now they were suffocating and tight in all the wrong spots. His ankles were starting to peak out of his trousers a bit too far, and he’d need to get a new round of outfits soon enough.

“Why do you say that?”

“Sometimes…he feels wrong. Like…” He trailed off for a moment, considering, then he held up a pen. “This is a pen.” He said confidently. “It’s got a blue casing, and so it has blue ink.” Olivia nodded, following his train of thought. Sherlock lowered the desk he was sitting at and started to scribble. Black ink joined the already stained wood of dozens of other student’s indiscretions. Olivia didn’t even try to stop him. “But it’s not blue ink, is it?” He held up the pen for her to take, and she did. “It’s only when you look deeper do you realize it’s misleading.”  

“It’s an apt analogy,” she told him, twirling the pen around her fingers for a moment. “You’re concerned about his sincerity, then?”

“I’m concerned about when his sincerity will end. It has to be on my terms.”

“Your nine, how are you going to manage that?” She arched a brow at him, and he bit his lip.

“I could always give him what he wants,” he suggested, just to see how she’d react. Her eyes tightened, and her lips pressed tightly to one another.

“Understand we’ve given you a valuable opportunity, Sherlock. Don’t squander it on petty revenge.”

“You think it’s revenge?” He didn’t bother to ask if it was ‘petty.’ Telling Sherrinford about Mycroft would be petty to her.  

“Do you have another word for it?”

“Self-preservation.”

“Think on that,” Olivia instructed. “If you told Sherrinford what he wanted, told him all about your brother and how to find him, what would Sherrinford do?” Sherlock opened his mouth to tell her just that, when he was blindsided by a memory he hadn’t expected.

It was a backdoor. The phrasing, wording, and situation was so eerily similar, Sherlock felt the wind rush out of him.

“Tell us what we need to know.”

“Give us what we want.”

“Give me your information.”

“I’m sorry, Will. Truly am.”

He clenched his hands into fists, shoving violently at the memory. Cigarettes. Six. Woods. Olivia. Door. Close. Six. Six. Six. Six. The sights and sounds faded into the back of his mind where they belonged, and he let out a ragged breath. Glancing up, he winced. Olivia was watching him closely. Her focus was intent, piercing.

“What was it this time?” she asked him quietly.

“It’s a hostage situation,” Sherlock told her, ignoring her question to state his own observation. “Sherrinford and me. That’s what I’ve volunteered for. That’s why you’re really interested.” Olivia did him the courtesy of restraining her smile to a brief twitch of the lips and nothing more. She nodded.

“Sherrinford wants information that you have. You’re a child, you’ve already been through one tragedy, and he’s a nightmare from the past. If you give him this information then you are not trustworthy to us or anyone else in the future. Our consideration of you will be at its end.”

“You’ll leave. You won’t come back.”

“Yes,” she stated. She didn’t care. They weren’t friends, and she was doing a job. The truth hurt worse than he’d like to admit.

“That’s the test, then.” He couldn’t make his fingers release the tight grip he’d had since the flashback. “You want to see if I’ll break.”

“No one would blame you if you did,” she told him gently.

“That’s not true.” He denied. “Mycroft would.”

“Mycroft doesn’t know this is happening. He wouldn’t blame you, he’d throttle our department. I’m not looking forwards to dealing with Mycroft.”

“Is he making strides?” She raised a brow at him. “You won’t tell me.”

“You’re not in a position to know anything about Mycroft Holmes. On paper, your relationship doesn’t even exist. He’s been written out of history, never to return.”

Sherlock forced his hands to relax. He breathed in and out slowly. He could smell a faint trace of chalk from the front of the room, and could hear the custodian cleaning somewhere in the building. “I want to see my brother again.”

“Right now, you only have one brother,” she reminded him. “One brother, and one test.”

“If I pass the test, then I’ll trade one brother for the other, won’t I?” he asked her. “You’ll make me disappear too. I’ll never see Sherrinford again.”

“No,” Olivia swiped another hand over her skirt, flattening a crease that had formed while she’d been sitting there. “No, Sherrinford will always be a part of your life. You cannot escape that.”

“Mycroft did.” There was a knock on the door and one of Olivia’s associates stepped through. The man made a sharp hand motion that she returned with a nod.

“Mycroft is distracted. One day, he will look back,” she told Sherlock, standing up in one smooth motion.

“And will he like what he sees?” Sherlock asked her, standing up as well. He picked up his school bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“No, Sherlock. I’m fairly certain he won’t,” she said, before leading the way from the classroom they borrowed. The answer wasn’t surprising. He’d expected it from the moment this charade had started.

Olivia and her associate left briskly, outpacing Sherlock easily and not bothering to say goodbye. He didn’t care. He simply pushed his hands into his pockets and started to walk home. She had given him much to think about, and the information was good to have. Before, manipulating Sherrinford had been a game. It wasn’t a game any longer.

Or rather, it was a game with vastly different rule than he initially suspected. Kent had died rather than give up the information those kidnappers had wanted. Greg had lied right up until the moment he’d been killed. That’s what good soldiers did. They muscled forwards and they didn’t tell the bad-guys anything. They stayed loyal to their cause.

There were a lot of people out there who deserved loyalty less than Mycroft Holmes, and Sherlock truly didn’t want to put his brother in harms way. Sherrinford was unpredictable, unreliable. He wanted to find Mycroft, and likely tear him limb from limb. By standing in Sherrinford’s way, Sherlock was in essence putting himself up as the lamb for slaughter instead.

If he did his job correctly then he would be saving Mycroft’s life. He would be responsible for saving the invisible heir to the British Government. The next Thomas Kent. If he did his job incorrectly, then not only would he be killed, but Mycroft would be in danger. And that was the most surprising part of the whole conundrum. That was the part that Sherlock had forgotten about.

Once he gave Sherrinford the information, there would be nothing to stop Sherrinford from killing him as well. He would have given up for nothing. It was a coward’s way out. Thomas Kent had killed himself rather than betray his cause. Sherlock had no intentions of killing himself, but he also had no intentions of dying a traitor.

Mycroft was safe, which meant that he wasn’t.

Sherlock arrived home faster than he initially intended. He pushed open the door and greeted Red Beard when he came over to say hello. His mother was in the kitchen working on something, and he gave her a brief wave before turning and walking up the stairs with his dog at his feet.

Sherrinford hadn’t complained about the Irish Setter once. Red Beard had looked at him and hated him faster than he’d hated Mycroft. He bared teeth at Sherrinford almost constantly, and refused to allow the man anywhere near Sherlock. In return, Sherrinford conceded defeat and made no attempts to get within ten feet of his little brother.

Red Beard was meticulous, and was ever vigilant. Sherlock had woken up in the dead of night to find Red Beard wide awake and staring at the door with the kind of steadfast determination usually found in great guard dog breeds. He’d held the dog close, whispering heartfelt words of gratitude even as his beloved Irish Setter continued to watch for any signs of trouble.

Sherlock now sat in his bedroom, stroking Red Beard’s fur as he considered his options. Sherrinford would start soon. Eventually it would happen. He’d either wait until Sherlock was least expecting it, or he’d play on doubt and fear until Sherlock broke and demanded action. The waiting was the hardest part, and it was the part that Sherlock wasn’t comfortable with. Living in fear of Sherrinford would drive him mad.

He needed to think. He needed to consider what was happening, and he needed to prepare. Already he could see signs of things starting to change. His paranoia about food had increased tenfold the moment Sherrinford had moved in. He couldn’t manage to release the tension he felt whenever he saw Sherrinford in the kitchen. He was back to basics, shopping each day from local markets and making it the same night.

If Sherrinford so much as stepped foot near the stove while he was cooking, he had to start all over again. Sherrinford always apologized, but the words never felt sincere. It was blue and black ink all over again, and Sherlock hated it. Red Beard had started to bar access to the kitchen whenever Sherlock was making food, and his family quickly adapted.

Left mostly alone, during these times, Sherlock wondered about what it would be like to poison Sherrinford instead. He wondered how his brother would feel, knowing his insides were being turned about, knowing that he could die at any second and that Sherlock was the cause. He wondered if Sherrinford would break then, tell him everything that he already knew, admit to all of the horrors that were running through his mind. He wondered if he’d find relief in that.

He didn’t think he would.

“Sherlock, darling, are you eating tonight?” It was an uncomfortably common question these days. Sherlock knew his mother hated when he answered no, but there were times when he was honestly too worked up to contemplate food of any kind.

“Not tonight,” he replied, calling Red Beard up onto his bed so he could hug the dog’s body to his chest. The cigarette box was struggling to push open. He clutched his fingers to his head and squeezed his eyes shut. “Go away,” he whispered out loud. “Just go away.”

Red Beard groaned and pushed against his hands. He shivered, and removed one hand just to squeeze the dog to his body. He kept the other one tight against his head, groaning as his blood pulsed against his skull. “Stop,” he murmured, trying to push back against the searing pain that was pounding behind his eyes. “Please.” Images and light flashed in sharp repetition under his sinuses.

His stomach lurched as the migraine grew to its highest proportion. Sherlock trembled harder, even as Red Beard groaned more insistently. The sound was piercing, and it dug into his subconscious. It latched onto his brain and ripped it savagely. He felt like pieces of grey matter had torn away from the bunch and he gasped in horror at the feeling.

Red Beard grumbled again, and it felt like a knife through the skull. He swallowed as bile rose up in his throat, and he struggled valiantly to manage some way to calm himself. He ran his fingers through Red Beard’s fur, and then he willed himself away. Green fields, beautiful valleys, Red Beard chasing a Frisbee, lying peacefully in the grass. His heart tripled its pulse, but he felt himself sliding to sleep.

For now, the migraine would pass.

Dreams slipped through Sherlock’s mind. Vivid and horrible images that were horrible to contemplate, and that morphed frequently. One nightmare slipped into the next.  What started off as a potentially pleasant way to escape the pain in his skull, ended abruptly at four in the morning. He sat upright gasping for breath. Red Beard had shifted to sit at the end of the bed, still awake and watching the door for trespassers.

Sherlock felt bile building in his throat and he kicked off the bed, stumbling as he hurried to the door. He made it to the bathroom just in time. Vomit pushed up in his mouth and he hurled indelicately into the toilet. The light turned on just as he was twisting away from the toilet. Sparks danced across his eyes and sent pain stabbing through his brain.

“Will?” Sickness overwhelmed him and he flinched badly. Sherlock’s limbs flew in all directions as he pressed his back up against the wall. Sherrinford was in the doorway. He opened and closed his mouth uselessly. He could hear Red Beard scratching at the door of his bedroom – locked in after Sherlock’s mad rush to get to the bathroom.

“Go away,” Sherlock requested, feeling his fingers start to shake. His eyes were burning, and when he opened them half his vision was blurred badly. Vomit was still coaxing its way up his throat, and he could feel a hint of fever overcoming him.

“Are you sick?”

“Go away,” he repeated. He raised a hand to swat at the air. The light switch was by the door. He wouldn’t be able to turn it off until Sherrinford left. There was no way out. There was no way he could get out of this. The pill bottle in the basement of his mind started to burst open.

“Now…just what have you two gotten into now?”

“Unwise, brother mine, to say things that you don’t know a thing about. Most unwise.”

“Come, you need a doctor.”

“Aren’t you coming as well, brother mine?”

“Go away!” Sherlock shouted, grabbing at the nearest item – a loo roll – and throwing it at his brother as hard as he could. It bounced off of Sherrinford’s chest and landed on the floor with a soft plop. It unraveled itself and left a long trail of white across the tile, creating a physical line to separate the brothers from one another.

“Quiet. You’ll wake them up.”

“GO-” Sherrinford surged forwards and slapped a hand to Sherlock’s mouth. The pressure on his face made Sherlock choke in pain. His brain felt as though a cheese grater was rubbing against it vibrantly.

“Be quiet!” Sherrinford hissed, pressing one hand down on Sherlock’s chest. “Why can’t you just be quiet?” Sherlock thrashed, kicking and twisting in an attempt to break free. His skull was throbbing. His teeth gained just enough purchase to bite, and Sherrinford pulled his hand away with a yelp. Adrenaline seemed to be a good antispasmodic, because the nausea faded almost immediately. Sherlock kicked off the floor and barreled passed his older brother. Sherrinford snatched his wrist, catching him off guard. He tripped as one foot hit the back of his ankle, and Sherrinford had to yank to keep him upright.

Suddenly being pulled in the wrong direction, Sherlock twisted to look at his oldest brother. He was barely aware he was about to be slapped before a sharp stinging sensation zoomed across his cheek. His head went flying to the right, and cracked painfully against the bathroom sink.

The good news was that Sherlock was no longer aware of the pain in his head or his nausea.

The bad news was that he was unconscious, and didn’t notice the relief.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Sherrinford caught Sherlock before he hit the ground. For one brief moment Sherrinford was convinced that he had somehow killed him. William (for he was always William in Sherrinford’s mind) had gone limp so quickly that his heart had leapt to his throat in shock. He hadn’t meant to do that. He could hear Red Beard scratching and barking in William’s room, and it would only be a matter of time before someone came out to check up on all the racket.

He looked down at his little brother. A bruise was forming on the side of his head, but thankfully there were no marks on his arm from where Sherrinford had grabbed him. There would be no question in anyone’s mind what happened. This had been his chance to get away, to make sure that things were done right, and he’d failed. Spectacularly.

He had to work out what to do. This was an accident. It was an accident. He hadn’t meant to hurt his little brother. He’d thought about it, sure. He’d been dreaming about torturing William for ages. He’d dreamt about pinning William to the ground and beating him bloody with Mycroft watching uselessly only feet away, crying out for William’s safety but never getting relief. He’d dreamt about that. But he was smart enough to know that that wasn’t going to get him anything he wanted.

He would be sent straight back to the hospital for this. He would be drugged stupid, and he’d never get to put into action the plans he wanted. Sherrinford looked around the bathroom, and carefully considered his options. He needed to act quickly.

He lowered William onto the ground, and hurriedly pulled off William’s shirt. The pants and bottoms went next. He reached out to the shower and turned it on. It was easy enough to hold William under the spray, soaking him completely in a matter of moments. Carefully balancing his brother, he tugged him back out and briskly dried off his upper body before wrapping the towel around William’s waist.

The rest was a matter of scene setting. He cleared up the loo roll, splashed a bit more water on the floor, and placed William in a heap by the sink. He flushed the vomit from the toilet, and looked around. There was nothing at all to suggest he’d been there in the first place.

Sherrinford knocked over a few bottles just in case, and then he carefully left the room. He closed the door with a quiet click, and returned to his room. He changed into a new outfit for the day, kicking his damp clothes under his bed where they wouldn’t be found until they dried. He had just finished tugging on a new shirt when Red Beard had given up on scratching at the door and had turned into full on barking.

Sherrinford heard his parents’ door open, and he opened his door as well. “What’s going on?” he asked, meeting his father’s confused eyes as he peered into the darkened hallway.

“I don’t know,” his father replied, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. The older man walked slowly to William’s room, knocking on the door twice.

“Sherlock?” he asked politely, even as Red Beard was turning nearly savage with his barks. He was scratching so hard at the door it was shaking on its hinges. Arthur knocked once more, then pushed it open.

“He all right?” Sherrinford asked even as Red Beard charged from the room. The Irish Setter looked left and right for a moment before charging downstairs. He was doing a lap around the bottom floor even as Arthur was absorbing the fact that William wasn’t in his bed.

“He’s not here,” Arthur murmured. Red Beard was back up the stairs and immediately sniffing at the bathroom door. He pawed at it desperately, and Arthur followed the dog’s lead. He pulled it open, and gasped. “Sherlock!”

Sherrinford watched as the scene played out. Their father was on the floor at William’s side in moments, turning him over and touching William’s bruised face.  He wasn’t waking up. Even after all of this time, he was still unconscious. “Call 999!” Arthur yelled, looking up at Sherrinford with honest terror in his eyes. “Now!”

He did as he was told. He ran down the stairs, rushing to the phone as quickly as possible. He dialed the emergency services, and licked his lips as he waited. “I need an ambulance at my address as quickly as possible,” he said as soon as the dispatcher connected. “My brother, he’s had an accident. He’s unconscious. I-I think he fell.”

Upstairs, he could hear his mother waking up to see what was going on. He could hear concerned voices getting louder, Red Beard barking and whining as he paced nervously around the scene. The dispatcher was asking more questions, and Sherrinford answered them as quickly and as concisely as he could. It didn’t take long. Once he was able to hang up the phone, he went back upstairs to see how things were progressing.

“What happened?” Margaret was asking for likely the tenth time.

“I don’t know,” Arthur replied. He looked up at Sherrinford. He didn’t look happy.

“The ambulance is on its way,” he offered, speaking quickly in hopes of avoiding an accusation.

“Why are you already dressed?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned for a bit, and then I heard Red Beard scratching at the door. I got dressed. When I heard him start to bark, I stepped out same as you.”

“You didn’t hear him fall?” Arthur asked skeptically.

“No,” Sherrinford replied. He didn’t try to coat the facts. There was no point. Either they would believe him, or they wouldn’t. From the way that his father was hugging William to his chest, he didn’t believe him. His mother was looking less certain, but she wasn’t casting any stones just yet. Lights filtered through the window, and she hurried passed them to go meet the paramedics and bring them upstairs.

“Did you do this?” Arthur asked Sherrinford the moment she was gone.

“You think I would do this to Will-Sherlock?” Sherrinford asked tightly. He shouldn’t be surprised at his parent’s lack of faith. He had actually struck William. He hadn’t wanted to, but he had.

William had been belligerent. He’d been causing trouble. Their parents would be woken up, and it would have been his fault. Sherrinford hadn’t even wanted to get William upset. He’d heard him throw up, and had wondered if he was all right. So he’d asked. He hadn’t meant to cause such a reaction, but it had been an over reaction.

Then William had shoved him, and he still hadn’t bothered to answer. It wasn’t right. William wasn’t allowed to do that. He wasn’t allowed to push past him, or ignore him, or tell him what to do. Sherrinford had been nothing but polite to him since he’d come back, and yet William had still acted like he’d been trying to do him harm.

Which was the worst part about the whole scenario: Sherrinford hadn’t meant to. If he was going to get into trouble for hurting his little brother, he’d at least have liked to have earned it by playing out one of the many scenarios he’d envisioned. This was not what he wanted, and his stomach rolled violently at the thought.

As the first responders started to push into the bathroom, Sherrinford stepped out of the way. Arthur passed William to them and corralled Red Beard back into William’s room, keeping the Irish Setter from panicking worse at the sight of William being carted away. He’d been unconscious for almost half an hour by now, and Sherrinford wondered if that was normal. It seemed a bit excessive.

“What’s Mycroft’s number?” Sherrinford asked, looking towards his mother as she slowly walked the paramedics. “Shouldn’t he be informed?”

“No,” she replied shortly. She didn’t even look at him. She just kept her eyes on her youngest son, attention rapt.

“But-”

“No,” Margaret snapped. Sherrinford closed his mouth. Something was wrong here. Aside from William’s injury and their current trip to the hospital, something else was seriously wrong. William was unconscious, had been for some time now, and instead of calling Mycroft and letting him know – they were not going to do anything.

Mycroft wasn’t just at some school in London, living a perfectly happy life away from his family. He was someplace else. He wasn’t dead, because no one seemed particularly morose or depressed. They’d have told him if he was dead in any case – there was no point in hiding it. But he was someplace…different.

As the ambulance pulled out of the drive, Sherrinford followed his parents to their car. Red Beard was left behind, whining and barking unhappily as they walked out the door. They slid inside, and followed the emergency vehicle to the hospital. A few aborted questions asking each other what exactly had happened ended in frustration and uncertainty. Sherrinford could feel their eyes on him, watching him, disbelieving. They were suspicious, but had no proof.

“Sherlock has an eidetic memory,” his father murmured quietly. The threat was clear. Sherrinford licked his lips unconsciously. He’d known from the beginning that there was a good chance the charade had just been delaying the inevitable. There was little chance that William would forget how he’d hit his head, even less of a chance considering how overpowered his memory was.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Sherrinford asked in response. He needed to start planning his escape route, and fast. He’d have to give up on his plans for the future, give up on the multitude of things he’d been working so hard to accomplish.  

“Nothing,” his father replied. He was lying. It meant everything.

When they arrived at the hospital, Sherrinford’s eyes immediately fell on two men who were very familiar. They had been guards at the last hospital he’d stayed at. They’d been the ones in the background that watched and waited, the ones that William had spoken to that one day. He glanced behind him. There was no chance to escape subtly, not without detection. He had to muscle through this.

Sherrinford watched as his mother filled out paperwork for William’s care, as his father started to shift nervously as he sat in the waiting room. The clock ticked by. It had been an hour since the accident. Sherrinford started to pace in circles, glancing from the clock, to his parents, to the door that hid William from view.

His mother came to sit with them, taking his father’s hand and squeezing it tight. They whispered assurances to one another, promising that everything would be all right. It would be. For them. Sherrinford wouldn’t be walking away from this, and the more the thought latched on in his brain, the more agitated he was becoming.

He wanted an answer, now, about it wasn’t forthcoming. The guards were watching him, and making no secret that he was the object of their attention. His hands were starting to shake. He could feel sweat start to bead on his forehead. The clock ticked away. Another half hour passed. An hour.

The door opened and a doctor walked out, calling for the family of Sherlock Holmes. Sherrinford watched as his parents stood up, and he followed them on instinct. This was it. This was where he was going to find out everything. They’d know the truth soon enough.

“Sherlock woke up just a few moments ago.” The doctor explained as he walked them to William’s room. “He’s asleep now, but we’re monitoring him closely.”

“What happened?” Sherrinford’s mother asked.

“We were concerned with how long he’d been unconscious for, and gave him an MRI and a CAT scan to be certain. He has a moderate concussion at the moment, which only compounded the severe migraine he was already experiencing.”

“Migraine? He had a migraine?” Sherrinford asked, blinking stupidly as he ran through the memory in his mind. William had flinched away from the light, been sick, and unsteady.

“Yes. It’s still present, despite the concussion, but the two collectively worked together to keep him unconscious. He did wake up, but considering the pain and the sensitivity, we sedated him. For now, we’re monitoring his concussion closely to make sure there are no other effects.”

“Why was he in the shower if he had a migraine? Wouldn’t that make it worse?” Arthur asked, eyes slowly shifting towards Sherrinford.

“He said he’d been sick for some time, and thought the shower might at least make his body feel better even if it did nothing for his mind,” the doctor replied. Sherrinford blinked.

“He said he took a shower to feel better?” he clarified, struggling to make sense of the response.

“Yes, but he lost his balance climbing out. It’s not uncommon with migraines to cause physical impairment or clumsiness. It was an accident,” the doctor stated. He pushed open a door and led them into a private room. William was lying asleep on a lone bed, bandage wrapped around his head and IV slipped into his vein.

The tension fell out of both Margaret and Arthur as they rushed to their son’s bedside. William was asleep, but in good hands. All was well, and Sherrinford almost forgot to breathe. William had lied. Why? What possible benefit did he have from lying? It didn’t make any sense.

He moved to sit in a chair beside his brother’s bed. He needed to think. Relief was quickly overshadowed by uncertainty. He was a danger to William and his family. He was a threat to their way of life and their prolonged existence, so why would William lie? If he’d told the truth then Sherrinford would have been forced to leave and there would be nothing to stop that from happening. He would have been locked away, likely for good, and William never would have had cause to worry.

He clutched his hands together and rested his fingers against his lips. It was a waiting game now, and William was in control.   

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mycroft was dreaming. He was standing in the open field by his childhood home. William was playing with Red Beard, running back and forth in the grass. He was laughing, calling out to his dog in joy. He had a ball that he’d roll across the plain, and Red Beard would fetch it for him.

Kent stood at Mycroft’s side, watching William play. He was in a tuxedo. Mud had slapped up over his shiny black shoes. It stained the edges of his trousers as well. He didn’t notice. Instead he was calling out, wordlessly, to William. Red Beard came rushing over to them, jumping and barking.

The Irish Setter pressed against their legs, and weaved through their bodies. William was still playing, ignorant of his dog’s departure. He was chasing something. Something Mycroft couldn’t see very well. He wanted to go out, make sure William didn’t stray too far. It was a foolish thought; William was perfectly safe on those fields. He’d been playing in them since the day he was born.

Kent reached out and caught his arm, holding him back. Mycroft looked to him, frowning in confusion, but the man just shook his head. It wasn’t time. Mycroft had already decided not to interfere with William’s life. That meant that he had to let him be.

Red Beard pressed against his leg one last time, before he ran back to William, barking loudly as he approached. Something moved in the grass, and William yipped in delight even as Red Beard pounced. Mycroft heard a soft grunt at his side, and he glanced towards Kent in confusion.

He’d started choking, foam and froth spewing from his mouth. He fell to his knees. Mycroft sank down with him, and called his name. Kent was dying in his arms. His eyes were rolling up in his head, his face was turning red, and his flesh was starting to bubble and boil. Mycroft looked up, terrified that William would turn around and see what was happening, but his little brother was focused on whatever he was chasing. He wasn’t paying any attention to them.

Kent was clutching his arm, gargling and choking. He was seizing. Mycroft held onto him tightly, fingers scrambling to hold onto his mentor. He called out the man’s name, but to no avail. Kent’s head thrashed backwards and his body went into the final stages of torment. His limbs flailed akimbo, before finally, he lay still in Mycroft’s arms.

“Mikey!” Mycroft turned his head, and watched in frozen horror as William came running towards him. He had something clutched in his hands. “Mikey, look!”

“Stay back!” Mycroft ordered, but his brother wasn’t listening. Instead, he continued coming towards him until he was only a foot away. William didn’t seem to notice the corpse in Mycroft’s arms. Instead, he held out his clasped hands. His fingers slowly opened around where they’d caged a small creature.

It was a butterfly.

Mycroft felt his heart skip a beat as he stared at it. “I caught it!” William told him in delight. The insect took a few steps on William’s palm, before it flapped its wings and flew up into the sky. Instead of fleeing, it circled the air between them for a moment. Then, it slowly flew downwards, landing on Kent’s chest.

The moment its legs touched down, the corpse exploded into pieces. No, not pieces, butterflies. There had to be thousands of them, hundreds of thousands. William started laughing as the insects started to swarm. They shot up into the air and wrapped around them. Red Beard was barking, and with each bark, more and more butterflies began to explode from the grass around them.

“Will?” Mycroft called out. He could hear his brother, but when he reached out to him, all he felt were the flapping wings of butterflies as they obscured his vision and sight. William was laughing louder and louder. “Will!” Mycroft called out once more. He surged forwards, slapping at the insects, stomping on them, killing them if he had to.

“Come on, Red Beard!” William called out, voice echoing obscenely through the wings that fluttered around in circles.

“Will!”

“Sir?”

Mycroft’s eyes snapped open. His body lurched upright, and he swung his head around. Kate was at his door. She was frowning deeply, and he shook the image of butterfly wings and chasing William from his head. It had been a more disturbing than he’d have liked to admit.

“Yes, Kate, what is it?” he asked, pressing his fingers to his eyes in order to push the sleep aside.

“There’s an update on Howard Norton.”

“Yes?”

“He’s dead. Murdered.”

“When?”

“Twenty minutes ago, the prosecution is attempting to make it seem like suicide.”

“Ensure the press knows otherwise,” Mycroft replied. He threw the blankets off, and dragged his dressing gown over his shoulders. Kate stepped back into the hall and he hurried passed her. “I want a reporter on scene taking as many photos as possible, the police are about to become very chatty.”

“Someone will lose their job over this,” Kate commented blandly.

“Yes. Someone will,” Mycroft agreed. “See it done.” She nodded shortly, then handed him a handful of papers.

“Here’s the information we’ve collected thus far on the Controllers.”

“Thank you.” He replied, taking the forms and heading towards his home office. “Make sure I have a line free. I have to make some calls.”

“Of course sir.”

Mycroft was on the phone every hour for the rest of the night and well into the morning. When his parents tried to call to let him know his brother was in the hospital- it just kept ringing. They couldn’t get through. Eventually they stopped trying. He considered the night to be a great success.

They didn’t.

**  
  
  
**


	8. Safeword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deepest apologies for the long wait. I've been working on finalizing my original novel and it's taken more out of me than I thought it would. 
> 
> The good news is - I'm almost done. 
> 
> The bad news is, I'm struggling to save up enough for the final payment for my editor. 
> 
> Apologies for the long wait!

Sherlock went home in the morning. He was tired, and still in a lot of pain, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. He was given a small supply of medicine to use if the migraine returned full force, and he gratefully put it aside for whenever such a time commenced. Sherrinford loitered around him. He watched Sherlock’s every move, as though convinced that Sherlock would enact retribution at any moment and tell the world the truth about what happened. 

 

He didn’t. In fact, he acted no differently towards Sherrinford than he had since that first day Sherrinford returned home. He was cold, but cordial, and acted perfectly calm throughout the day. Time and again someone asked Sherlock about the accident, and he always said the same thing. He fell in the shower and he hit his head. It was exactly what everyone saw: an accident. 

 

Sherlock enjoyed watching his oldest brother squirm. He enjoyed watching him grow progressively more uncomfortable, standing flat footed and uncertain. He never let Sherrinford forget, however, that he absolutely  _ did _ remember what happened in that bathroom. When his mother’s back was turned, he winked to Sherrinford, smiling easily when he flinched. Sherrinford’s face turned bitter. He scowled darkly at Sherlock and clenched his fists tight. Eventually enough, they made time to talk. It had been a long time coming. 

 

Sherlock sat outside with Red Beard, petting his dog in the fields and watching the bees pollinate the wild flowers. Sherrinford joined him, ever cognizant of where his parents were. They had been distracted by a financial issue that needed to be addressed, and were discussing their plans inside. 

 

“Why did you lie?” Sherrinford asked his little brother. Sherlock slanted his gaze towards him. 

 

“You’ll kill me one day, won’t you?” he asked him seriously. Sherrinford didn’t respond to that. He just stared at his brother intently, taking him in as he sorted his thoughts. “I know you will. As soon as you have the opportunity to you’ll kill me.”  

 

“Why did you lie, then?” Sherrinford asked. “Or are you really so suicidal that it’s preferred?”

 

“I’m not suicidal.” Sherlock told him, shaking his head. “I certainly don’t have any intentions of dying either.” 

 

“Then  _ why _ did you lie?” 

 

“You didn’t mean to hit me,” Sherlock replied. Sherrinford’s eyes narrowed. He started to pick at his fingernails unconsciously, never moving his gaze from Sherlock’s face. “You were angry, upset. You thought that I was disrespecting you, and so you wanted to punish me for it. Cause and effect. You meant the slap – not the concussion that followed.” 

 

“And because I didn’t  _ mean _ to hurt you as badly as I did, you lied.” Sherrinford didn’t believe him. His voice was scandalized, annoyed even. 

 

“I lied because I wanted to see what would happen if I lied. You stayed.”

 

“Where was I going to go?” Sherrinford asked, frustrated. “I have no money, no transportation, and no life outside of this.” He waved his hand around them. “I’m a prisoner without bars. And  _ you _ , you are encouraging me. You’re winding me up just to watch me dance.”

 

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not encouraging you. I’m telling you. You’re not in control, and you need to be. One day you will be arrested for letting your more violent inclinations take shape. You’ll destroy everything you have working for you, simply because you are impulsive. I have no desire to see you in jail, Sherry. Not for an impulse.”

 

“Why? I tried to kill you in the past, and as you said- I will try again in the future. Why keep me out of jail?” 

 

“Because you terrify me,” Sherlock said quietly. “You terrify me, and I cannot be terrified by you.”

 

“What are you talking about? Why not?” It didn’t make sense to the oldest Holmes’ brother, and frankly, Sherlock doubted it would make sense to anyone aside from Olivia and her group of spooks. 

 

“I don’t want to be afraid of anything. I need to learn how to overcome this…feeling. I need to be able to push it away. If I can’t, then I’m only going to fall into more situations like earlier this week. I’m going to be scared, frightened, and nervous for the rest of my life, triggered into feeling certain ways  _ constantly _ if I can’t get passed this... _ you. _ So I need you here. I need you here so I can ground myself, and then…then I won’t be afraid any more.”

 

“None of that will matter if I kill you anyway.” Sherrinford pointed out. Sherlock gave him a bitter smile. 

 

“It matters until that point,” he replied bluntly. 

 

“Sherlock?” their mother called from inside the house. He pushed himself up to his feet and whistled for Red Beard to follow him. Sherrinford stayed behind, watching Sherlock leave. Sherlock could feel it in the air, though. Things were different now. They were changing. 

 

When Sherlock stepped inside, his mother told him that Olivia wanted to speak with him, and she herded him into the car to go for a drive. They stayed quiet for the most part, though it was obvious Margaret wanted to talk about something. Sherlock didn’t have anything to say. He was tired and still felt the effects of the migraine. His head throbbed with every bump on the road, and his stomach was progressively more unsettled. 

 

He was driven to the school and his mother stayed in the car while he went inside. Olivia always met him in the same classroom. It wasn’t difficult to find her. He slid open the door and peered inside. She was leaning against a desk with her hands balancing her as she tilted forwards. Her eyes locked onto him immediately, and she sighed. 

 

“You lied,” she stated bluntly. 

 

“No,” he replied. He took a step in and closed the door behind him.

 

“This exercise isn’t meant for you to end up in a grave. At the end of the day, you’re still a child.”

 

“I’m not a child,” Sherlock replied, crossing his arms over his chest. He tilted his chin up and pressed his lips together. Olivia slammed a hand on the desk she was leaning against, and he jumped. One foot stepped back on instinct, even as he blinked rapidly. 

 

“That is exactly what you are. You are  _ nine _ .” 

 

“That doesn’t mean-”

 

“That’s exactly what it means. You let your older brother smash your face against a sink-”

 

“I didn’t  _ let _ him do anything!” 

 

“Then you were in a position you shouldn’t have been. He put you in the hospital.”

 

“No he didn’t!” 

 

“ _ Yes, he did _ . You realize that you are not physically capable of defending yourself, correct? That the entire reason we even allowed this farce to continue was because you would never be in any  _ real _ danger.”

 

“He didn’t put me in the hospital.” 

 

“I am not here to quibble over your lies, I’m here to talk about what happened. I  _ know _ what happened, and you willfully are allowing this to continue.” 

 

“He didn’t hurt me,” Sherlock insisted, shaking his head from side to side. “He didn’t.” 

 

“You’re a greater fool than I originally thought,” she told him sharply. 

 

Olivia walked forwards with sharp steps. Her heels echoed through the room with a firm  _ click-click-click _ . Sherlock pulled away from her as she approached. One hand rubbed the back of his neck, worriedly, while the other waved uselessly in front of his body. She batted that away with a rough swat, and then reached out to cup his chin between her fingers. She forced his head to look away, and she peered down at the dark bruising that marred his face. 

 

“You’re my responsibility” she told him, carefully lowering her voice even as she tilted his face to look in the other direction. Once she was satisfied, she released him, but neither stepped away from the other’s personal space. 

 

“You don’t care about me,” he spat out, struggling to rein in his emotions and find a homeostasis that worked. Olivia scowled at him. 

 

“If I didn’t care about you, I wouldn’t still be here. Your mother asked me to come as a personal favor, I  _ stayed _ , because of you.” 

 

“I’m a right wanker, you always said so,” he replied, frowning as he tried to work out what she was saying. 

 

“You are, but you’re also a child. Heaven knows, someday you might just grow out of being an idiot, though it doesn’t seem likely.”

 

“He’s my brother,” Sherlock whispered. He bit his lip, and then leaned forwards. He wrapped his arms around her body and held her close. She was rigid under his grasp, and he tightened his grip. “Please don’t take him away.” 

 

“Don’t try to sham me, Sherlock Holmes. I am not in the mood, nor do I have the patience for it.” His shoulders started hitching up and down, and he shook his head against her chest.

 

“I’m not-I’m not shamming! Please.” He pulled back just enough for her to see that he was actually crying. “Please don’t-”

 

“I  _ will _ actually slap you, concussion or not,” she informed him dutifully, taking her hands and gripping his arms tight. She pushed him back several inches, and watched as the tears faded on his face. Instead, his lips twisted angrily. 

 

“Why won’t you listen to me?”

 

“Because you’re a lying  _ child _ who is convinced he knows better than his superiors.”

 

“Sherrinford isn’t dangerous.” 

 

“He put you in the hospital. Again.” 

 

“He didn’t mean to.”

 

“I don’t mean to make you upset, but you seem determined to be upset regardless.” she replied, completely disinterested in his opinion on the matter. She also didn’t mention the fact that he’d finally admitted Sherrinford’s involvement. 

 

“One more chance. Give me one more chance,” Sherlock bargained.

 

“No,” Olivia replied. “No, this game is over.”

 

“I can  _ do  _ this.” 

 

“You’re a child. You aren’t capable of making that choice.”

 

“You wanted to recruit me!” 

 

“You’re a  _ child _ , Sherlock. I told you that it was a possibility in  _ nine _ years. That is not the case at the moment.”

 

“Give me one more chance. Please, give me one more chance.”

 

“You aren’t being punished. This isn’t some negotiation that can be meted out with good behavior. The man who beat you is going to be taken away from you, do you not understand how this works?”

 

“I made him angry. It was my fault. Mycroft had fourteen years to understand how to deal with Sherrinford. Give me another chance.” Olivia shook her head. 

 

“The answer is ‘no,’” she told him. 

 

“Why did you even let him come home?!” Sherlock shouted. For the first time since he stepped into the room, she was silent. Her eyes were still narrowed, but the tone of the conversation had changed. She was preparing her response, and he wouldn’t let her give it yet. Not until he’d set the groundwork. “Why did you even bother? You knew I was nine. You knew that I was going to screw this up. You knew that I would get hurt from the get go, because you  _ knew _ what I was like.” Olivia opened her mouth to speak, but he plowed on. “You knew I’d get hurt from the beginning and it never bothered you until it happened. This isn’t about me going to the hospital, because you already were aware that could be a possibility. You knew, and you chose to let it happen anyway. Why were you okay with me getting hit before, but now you’re not? Why are you okay with me getting hit once, but you’re not willing to let me finish this? I  _ know _ I can do this, but you’re taking it away.  _ Why?  _ You don’t seem like the type of person to have a crisis of conscience.”

 

Olivia considered him for several moments. Sherlock refused to take her eyes off of her, wanting to take in every part of this moment. The creases around her eyes had gotten deeper. Her shoulders were stiff. Her makeup was nonexistent. Outside the birds were calling to each other loudly, and there were children playing in the front yard. It was a meaningless observation, because all that mattered now was her decision. She chose her words carefully when she did reply, each syllable came out controlled and careful. 

 

“You believe you can work with Sherrinford?” she asked him.

 

“Yes.” he replied.

 

“One more trip to the hospital, and I’m closing this down,” she told him firmly. 

 

“Thank you,” he replied. “One more chance is all I need.”

 

“Lets hope you’re right. I have no desire to explain to your mother why you were killed.” Sherlock nodded. Then, a thought occurred to him. He frowned, and wondered if he should say it. 

 

“Someone died…didn’t they?” he asked her. “Doing this?”  

 

“That’s classified,” she told him bluntly. It was as much of a confirmation as he was going to get. “Don’t become another statistic,” she said, reaching out and giving his shoulder a squeeze. 

 

“I will be,” he replied. “I’m going to be a spy when I grow up. Do you have a lot of statistics on them?” he asked. Her lips tightened. 

 

“More than I care to know,” she replied. Then, without another word, she collected her things, and walked out the door. She had never answered his questions on ‘why’ this was happening. She’d left without addressing them at all. 

 

Interesting. 

 

Sherlock took his time walking out of the school. There were several clubs active at the moment, despite the fact that it was a weekend, and he saw more students around than he usually did during Olivia and his meetings. He ignored most of them, thinking only on his brother and what was happening with him. 

 

His mother was still waiting in the car, and she looked even more tense than Olivia as he slid into the front seat beside her. She glanced at him and then her shoulders sagged and her head dropped somewhat. She looked ready to cry. Instead of starting the car and driving home, she rested her elbow on the car door and her head in her palm. 

 

“Mummy?” Sherlock asked, reaching out to touch her shoulder. 

 

“Are you safe?” she forced the words out. She was bitter. More than that, though, she was afraid. She was truly afraid that he was going to be in danger, and Sherlock wondered where her insistence that ‘a mother always loved their child’ had gone. How could she believe that, but be so willing to demonize one child versus the other. It didn’t make sense to him. 

 

“I’m safe,” he promised her. “I am.” 

 

“Sherrinford hurt you-”

 

“No, he didn’t,” Sherlock reiterated. He didn’t know what Olivia might have passed on to his parents, but he would not confirm what happened. He couldn’t. Not when he was so close. He could feel it. He knew that things with Sherrinford were going to change. It was just a matter of time. 

 

Margaret Holmes didn’t believe him, but she swiped her hands over her face and pulled out of the drive regardless. She drove him home slowly, passing by happy families with insolent children who didn’t dream of death and murder. The other people, normal people, around them weren’t privy to the fact that their world was a dark one they couldn’t find peace in. They were tainted already, and there was nothing that was going to change that. They could only adapt to their surroundings.

 

At home, Sherlock smiled as Red Beard ran out to meet him at the door. He ran a hand through the dog’s fur and glanced around the house with interest. Seeing nothing better to do, he wandered towards his chemistry set and reviewed his previous notes. He began reading a textbook on advanced chemistry, running experiments to test the knowledge he was absorbing.

 

His father came over at some point, and gave him a loose one-armed hug around his shoulders before sitting before his trains and collecting pieces to start putting together. He was working on a new train station piece and had set about carving and painting individual components to building Kings Cross Station.

 

Sherrinford was still sitting on the back porch, reading a book. Sherlock could hear his mother going out to ask if he needed anything periodically. She was always turned away. Red Beard groaned loudly, plopping his head onto his front paws as he watched the display. He wasn’t impressed. 

 

Dinner was a solemn affair. Sherlock made a quick pasta dish that didn’t require much thought, and likely would have offended Uncle Rudy on principle. He was too worn out to want to make something more extravagant, and no one seemed interested in complaining. The family sat around the table together. They didn’t say much to each other, and Red Beard attempted to encourage them to pass sausage bites off their plates into his (clearly) starved gullet. 

 

Red Beard was only moderately successful. He managed to get a few pieces of sausage, without sauce, after dinner, that Sherlock had set aside for him. Margaret had strict rules about letting Red Beard eat at the table with them, and so he could only be fed scraps afterwards. 

 

It took a few hours before everyone went their separate ways. Eventually they turned in for the night, and Sherlock stared up at the ceiling of his room. He didn’t look towards Mycroft’s bed. It was an open invitation for memories to start leaking out, and he wasn’t interested in hearing any of them at the moment. Instead, he counted blemishes in the paint and drywall above him until he heard a quiet knock at his door. 

 

Red Beard started growling low in his throat, and Sherlock sat upright. “Come in,” he beckoned. Sherrinford. He didn’t try to step into the room, merely pushed the door open to reveal it was him.

 

“I’d like to talk to you about something,” he stated, purposefully avoiding looking at Red Beard. The Irish Setter was baring teeth, hackles raised. Sherlock ran a hand over his dog’s back, soothing him. 

 

“Okay,” Sherlock replied. He swung his legs off the bed and stood up. Red Beard immediately hopped down to follow him. His beloved dog wouldn’t let him stay alone with Sherrinford, and it was a welcome feeling to know that he had some company. 

 

The two brothers slipped down the stairs to the living room, carefully avoiding the creaking steps where they could in hopes that they didn’t disturb their parents. Sherrinford sat down on the sofa and Sherlock positioned himself at his chemistry table. 

 

“It wasn’t my intention to hurt you,” Sherrinford said, looking at Sherlock through uncertain eyes. He shifted awkwardly on the sofa, never seeming comfortable. 

 

“I know,” Sherlock promised. “You need to work on control.” Sherrinford’s fingers tightened and he started to rub them viciously against each other. 

 

“Yes,” Sherrinford agreed. “Impulse does seem to be my greatest downfall.” He licked his lips. “You know what’s funny?” he asked, looking up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I spent every minute in that hospital thinking about ways to get out. I wanted to murder almost all of them. I thought about it a lot.” It wasn’t surprising, though it was unsettling. “I loathed the idea of going to therapy, talking about my feelings, getting it all out. No one wants to hear what you have to say. No one wants to really  _ fix _ you. They want to ply you with pills and keep you out of society, congratulating themselves on a job well done at the end of it all. I wanted to get out so badly, that when I was finally out…” He waved a hand around. “I don’t think I understand what to do.” 

 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, struggling to comprehend what his brother was describing. 

 

“They tell you that they’re going to get you better, set you right. They tell you they’ll fix you and make it perfect again. You’ll be functional, you’ll be good to go. They tell you all of that, but the outside world is different than that. The outside world has people around all the time, they’re loud and brightly colored and they’re rude. They’re so rude! In the hospital everyone was the same. They were patient and cordial. If you made a ruckus you were immediately overcome and dealt with. It made sense. You make a mistake and you’re punished for it. That’s not how society works.” 

 

“No…it isn’t.” Sherrinford sighed and ran a hand through his hair in agitation.

 

“It’s the little things that don’t make sense.” 

 

“Like?”

 

“The bed’s too soft. The food’s…too good. Everything smells stronger. Everything looks brighter. It’s like there’s a deluge of data crawling through my brain and I can’t get rid of any of it.” 

 

“So you kill or attack those that make it worse.” Sherrinford nodded.

 

“It feels good to silence them. It feels right.  _ They _ caused me so much misery, and so now they’ll die. That’s good. That’s really good.” He stood up sharply and started to pace. 

 

“It’s agitation,” Sherlock realized. “You get agitated, and then that overcomes everything until it stops.”

 

“It’s a pounding pressure, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.” Sherrinford hit the side of his head with his palm, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to block out the stimulus. 

 

Sherlock watched, stunned, as pieces fell into place. He understood this. He understood this better than he could have ever hoped. He knew what it was like to have his brain burn with information, to have his synapses exploding with the pain of a migraine that wouldn’t go away, how he’d been desperate to have even the slightest bit of relief. He understood what it was like to shove memories deep inside of him just on the off chance that it would keep them from incapacitating him as he walked through life.

 

This was a kind of crazy he knew well. 

 

Despite knowing that he needed to stay calm around Sherrinford, despite knowing that he couldn’t lash out or do certain things to upset him, in the throws of a migraine Sherlock had done just that. He’d instigated, he’d made things worse. He hadn’t thought about his mission, or of Olivia, or of his training to keep control on those memories and emotions. 

 

“When you get overwhelmed and need to stop, tell me a word,” Sherlock offered. “Something to let me know that things are getting out of control and you can’t handle it anymore.”

 

“I’m not giving a safeword to my little brother,” Sherrinford snapped back, anger dancing across his face. Red Beard started growling at Sherlock’s feet, and Sherrinford flinched. He pressed his hands to his head. “You need to go,” he told Sherlock firmly. “Now.” 

 

“That works,” Sherlock replied. “Just tell me to go, and I will.” He stood up from his chair. “And if you want to talk…we can.” He fumbled through the offer. Sherrinford’s fingers were turning white they were clenching down so hard, he didn’t even look at Sherlock as he slowly edged out of the room. 

 

Sherlock was halfway up the stairs when he heard Sherrinford’s knees hit the ground and a hitching breath that precluded a sob echoed through the house. He hesitated, wondering if he should go back down and offer him some kind of comfort. “Go, Will,” Sherrinford’s voice grit out, dark and dangerous. He did as he was told.

 

He hurried back up to his room and closed the door behind Red Beard as the dog slipped in. He locked it tight, and pressed a chair under the handle. Sherlock could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He understood his brother. That didn’t mean that he knew how to help him. 

 

But for now, he would be slightly better at managing him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can contact me at tumblr to ask any questions http://www.falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Tumblr for story updates, prompt submissions, and more: 
> 
> falcon-fox-and-coyote.tumblr.com


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